Glorious
by jilligor
Summary: slash/violence/melodrama/fluff Brian sends Ted to England to work. and get a life. Ted finds more than he planned for...including the chance to be a hero. Ted with an original character.
1. Chapter 1 Why Am I Here?

**Glorious**

Title: 1 – _Why Am I Here?_

Author: Jilligor

Summary: Ted's sent to England by Brian to work/"get a life," and he actually listens. This is about Ted with an OC.

Rating: M - even if the first parts are relatively tame.

Warnings: naughty no-no language, slashiness, and violence later on.

Disclaimer: Ted (and Brian) is a fictional character someone else made that I'm borrowing. But this is a work of fiction spewed out from my diseased mind.

_Matty:_

The light of the computer monitor glares in my eyes. It's starting to hurt a bit by now, after staring at it for nearly seven hours straight. But that's the beauty of working from home: you can get to it when you get to it. As long as it gets done. I decided to put it off a few hours later than usual today, hence the late hour as I finish up the last round of deciphering babbled dictation from blokes in white coats with their heads up their arses – surely that's where they must be, their speech is always so obscenely garbled over the recordings.

But I'm a fast one, I am – fast fingers on both versions of keyboards, evidently. One of the people I work for – a female voice over the phone, a typed name on an email, a disembodied entity which I've no proof of any actual existence aside from these easily explained-away instances that could very well be proxies – has commented that I'm one of the most productive workers they've never had the pleasure to meet. Seven hours, and I've no idea how many files I've sent back – but it must be a pretty penny... which I'll never see. I never get to see it in all its papered glory – just numbers on a sheet of paper I don't understand, and a few wads of fivers now and then from a discerning hand.

This is how I live; this is how I work; this is how I bide my time, apart from splattering paint on shoddy easels and biting my nails in nervous anticipation of what the night will bring. It's fairly routine, if a bit nerve-wracking, especially the night-time bit, where I'm not sure if it'll be peaceful and quite, or riddled with unspoken tension that eventually leads to blinding bouts of cursing and misplaced fury.

Speaking of which...

The clock in the corner of the screen reads 9:45. He'll be home soon. Best start to get dinner ready – has to be fit for eating after his normal winding down habits, yet not too cold to be disgusting once he's made it to the table. My own stomach hurts so much from hunger by this point, I can't stand to think of food, but I force myself to do so after sending off my last correspondence for the day. Normally I'd join him for dinner, but I just can't tonight. Oh, I'll be sitting right beside him – can't stray _too_ far from the norm. But I can't possibly force a morsel down my throat.

I messed up last night, you see, so I wasn't able to relieve those familiar hunger pangs everyone gets when deprived for certain periods of time. By now, I've reached the point where those twinges have become almost debilitating nausea – which will abate soon enough. After I fall asleep, anyway. The kind of stomach issue that never feels righted until hours of unconsciousness have calmed the natural confusion of whether a belly can digest or reject something forced into it.

It's a bit like love, I suppose – starved for so long, the initial reaction to too much is outright rejection. Feeding constantly at small intervals can make one feel uncomfortable; binging now and again can bring about the same result. A healthy, regular, steady diet is what helps make one feel stable and strong. And kept away from it for so long... Well, sometimes you're not sure _what_ you're putting in yourself, but... when it's pure, untainted, untouched by any poison or rot, it'll settle in you nicely.

Or some such nonsense. I suppose. I don't know. I'm just tired of thinking. I'm tired of everything. Almost too tired to turn the burner off when I see the slop in the pot is boiling ready. The sight of it alone makes me want to vomit – but I'm too tired to do that either.

This is a good thing, though. The weakness will lend to my mental time-out whilst he gets his rocks off or whatever tonight. I won't feel like riding that wave that's been retreating from my shores for the past several months, but I won't feel like stubbornly refusing to please him either; in fact, I won't even feel like pleading pathetically to stop, too overwhelmed by pain – it never does any good anyway, and I'd only be wearing myself out more, whilst earning another night confined to the flat at the same time.

I remember a time when I wasn't always so tired. I think. I think I kind of miss it, really. I could do so much more with a healthy dose of pure energy. Maybe I wouldn't mess up so often then. If only I could get it sorted. But it's a never-ending cycle with me. Caught in this hamster wheel, or like a snake eating itself...

Oh God... Eating... Bloody hell...

I can't think of food; it makes me feel ill. Then not eating makes me tired. Then I don't think of what I'm doing or saying and end up earning another hateful glare. Or worse. If I don't give up and let him have his way – physically or argumentatively. That thoughtless slip leads to another day of punishment. And he'll know if I cheat – he keeps track of what we have in the cupboards. He'll know if I've eaten, or if I've gone out – he knows every scrap we have, every cent in his wallet. Mine only comes to me by his hand. So he knows. But I have to do this right tonight. Except for last night's slip-up, I've been good all week. Earned myself a night out. Well, so long as I'm home at the appropriate time to have supper ready for him.

The only good thing is that he works over an hour away, so it takes him this long to get home. That's why we have dinner so late.

Sometimes... God forgive me... I wish he'd go farther.

_Ted:_

I groan when I see where my company-appointed guide is dragging me. Trust Brian to set me up with a freak who's convinced I'll "dig jazz" when I mention in passing that I have a severe adoration for music... failing to mention what _kind_ of music, of course. Not that I can't appreciate this particular form of it – it's just not my scene.

"Isn't there an opera house somewhere nearby?"

My hopes are squandered – he just stares back at me dumbly, like I've just asked what's so important about this "football" thing these Brits are always going on about.

"Oh? But it's got loads a' gay blokes in it!"

Yeah... Trust Brian to set me up with _this_ guy... He's done it just to annoy me, I'm sure of it. He knows my tastes; therefore he knows this will aggravate me to no end. Where I'd go for a simple glass of red wine and a stimulating conversation, he's constantly pushing me to take a step further – or, in my mind, skid ten miles down a sixty degree cliff towards oblivion – into _his_ world. Fuck, going to _Babylon_ is just about my limit anymore; I'm comfortable in my predictability and content in my happiness... which bears a striking resemblance to "boring" to the rest of the world.

"Nevermind," I sigh, resigning myself to the fact that I'll be bombarded with depressing – but not melodramatically wrist-slashing, as I prefer it – music and too much smoke for the next few hours. At least the guy with me isn't completely an embarrassment to be seen with. Even if he _is_ straight. It'll give the impression that I'm taken, so I won't have to worry about finding someone to hook up with. Or, more accurately, I won't have to deal with the pain of being rejected by much younger British gentlemen who have the wrong idea as I wile away the time trying to make conversation...

See, it's not like I'm here for any recreational purposes, no matter how much this company guy who's escorting me insists he's trying to show me a good time in London. I've been sent here by my friend – and I use the term loosely, and prefer to call him my "boss," though that's also very loose – to help get this newly acquired branch of his ad agency up and running in England. A few months, he said at first; then maybe half a year. By the time I got on the plane, he was yammering to me on my cell that if things kept going as they seemed to be heading, I could be there long enough to raise my own little family. (Nevermind that I can't procreate, being gay and all.)

But six months, he said, six months at _least_. And after many of our friends went off to pursue their own dreams, his former lover included, Brian decided that he wanted to go travel the world. But... there was this little matter of _his business_ to deal with. Since my own small interest in love quickly fizzled out – for the umpteenth time with that specific individual, whom I still love but simply can't _be_ with, in general – and I was caught too many a time moping around my desk while fussing over why the one wasn't a two and the two wasn't a one in the cents column of the agency's account books, Brian came to a decision: the new branch of the agency was getting ready for launch, and _I_ was going to be present and responsible for its success.

Meanwhile, he would live vicariously through me as I, and I quote, "party that old-fart ass off and get a life again."

What else was I going to do? A fully _paid_ and accommodated, extended business trip to another country after living in Pittsburgh for too many years than I'd like to count, all on the company's tab? Better yet – on _Brian's_ tab?

A week and a half into this misadventure of mine, I'm beginning to see the flaws in the plan. _Brian_ planned it, after all. He's the one who set up my initial meetings with the overseas managers and executives, as well as some potential clients and such. He's the one who told Ricky here, my studly but strictly unavailable hetero guide, that I would enjoy a bit of the nightlife London had to offer – conveniently "forgetting" to mention that I'm not up to par with Brian's own idea of "fun." And he's the one who calls me on my cell every few days and asks, "Did you get laid yet or what? Well, get moving, you pathetically dull mope, I told you to get a fucking _life_!"

Some boss. Sometimes I feel like I should be the one with the leash.

As expected, the club is packed with sweaty groups of... unfairly attractive individuals... and plenty of smoke and booze. Luckily, as I've decided (against Brian's most heartfelt wishes, of course...) to remain as sex-free as possible while I'm here. I want to concentrate on _work_, and after the last unhappy ending, I'm more than eager to dive headlong into working late nights at the office, shouting senselessly at virus-riddled computers and trying to force mathematical laws to reinvent themselves to my liking.

But first, Ricky needs to feel like he's actually of some use to me as far as entertainment goes. I feel like telling him the most entertainment he could provide me with is a striptease, but I'm afraid that would just scare the poor boy off. Besides, I couldn't possibly _say_ that to anyone I'm not steadily dating – that's Brian's style, not mine.

I let him buy me (on _Brian's_ tab, of course) a few rounds of drinks, as strong as I can handle, and slink into a comfortable slump in my seat as Ricky yammers on and on in his thick Cockney accent about all the possibilities in front of me for the "pleasure" part of my business/pleasure stay here in England. Somewhere around ten-thirty, his face becomes wobbly and wavy, and I'm smiling stupidly back across the dimly lit table at him, too amused by the fact that he's so sure I'm listening to actually laugh at the _jokes_ he's telling.

But then I hear it. As the live jazz band on the small stage at the back of the club slips out of a tune I think I may have heard here and there throughout my life, the small but lively crowd applauding appreciatively at the effort, there's a pause in the room – surely time and space continue as they're meant to, but for a split second, it's as if the atmosphere in the entire bar gasps (or maybe that's just in my mind; maybe the gasp is only from me, in fact, and that's why I seem to be the only one who hears it), and the once unnoticeable piano which had been playing along to the previous slew of miserable, upbeat, or dance-like songs breaks out suddenly in a dramatic flourish of arpeggios and pounding, breath-taking chords...

I blink several times at the gesturing man in front of me, who doesn't seem to hear the music at all over his own voice, then snap my head sharply to the side, as if the alcohol in my system has delayed my startled reaction, giving my physical actions time to catch up to my mental processing of the melody reaching my ears.

That's when I see him. Sitting at the nearly dilapidated wreck of a piano is a small, hunched lump of a thing – man or boy, I can't quite tell from this distance, perhaps even an androgynous woman for all I can tell – nearly being swallowed whole by a plain black sweater and a blue beanie cap. The torso sways gently in contrast to the flailing arms, which fly up and down the length of the keyboard, spitting out the sounds as gracefully as the body is moving – even if the hands are nothing but a blur to my drunken eyes... though, knowing my stuff about classical composers and the like, this kid isn't just fooling around, and those hands would still be blurs if I were completely sober.

He's good. He's better than good. He's...

I blink quickly several times, silently cursing the smoke in the bar for making my eyes well up, not wanting to miss a second of this impromptu performance. And as the other musicians on the stage huddle around and mutter to each other, probably discussing what to offer to the crowd next, the pianist ignores them, ignores the rest of the bar, probably ignores the entire world itself while continuing to play. The song is familiar to me, yet isn't – the style is one I know, but the song that originally caught my attention has morphed into something new, something apart from the composition written by someone else, but similar in a way. I can instantly tell the vivid influences as a few measures of one style gives way to several more of a different one. An improvised medley of bits from classical pieces, an amalgam of clearly classically-inspired originals, and finally ending with a humorously minor-chorded, Doomsday rendition of – of all things – _Chopsticks_.

I gawk at the back of the figure's head, utterly oblivious to Ricky's continued raving about the various clubs I can check out later, and try to muster some kind of telepathy to make the pianist turn around.

My message seems to reach its goal, and I can't help but blink yet again when I see, even from thirty feet away, a large set of clear blue eyes caught by the light from the stage, glancing furtively out toward the disinterested audience before turning further to catch the attention of the other musicians. There are a few words exchanged that can't be heard, and as the young man with the brightly-lit eyes and striking, pale face nods amicably while turning back to the piano, it strikes me as odd that no one's applauded _him_ for that wondrous display of... well, more talent than the _rest_ of the musicians have showcased so far.

On a whim – probably because I'm so inebriated that I don't think of how stupid I may seem – I thoughtlessly and loudly start clapping my hands, nodding my approval to his seemingly ignored (and now forgotten) in-between solo enthusiastically.

The musicians on the stage look out into the crowd, as the people in that crowd turn their heads this way and that, everyone looking a bit confused, trying to find the source of the apparently misplaced display of appreciation.

I catch Ricky staring at me oddly, and I only grin, nodding more fervently. "D'you hear that? That's some fuckin' _music_, man!" I slur obnoxiously, my claps increasing in energy and volume. I kick at Ricky under the seat, urging him to follow my lead, and after a few embarrassed casting of his eyes to others nearby for help, he finally relents and joins me. I let out a high whistle and am glad to hear that, gradually, if a bit half-heartedly, some others have picked up on it too and follow suit.

Even the pianist himself looks perplexed, I notice as I fix my gaze on him again; he has a funny look on his face, like he's not sure if he's hearing correctly, and scratches absently at the hair hidden under his beanie – and for some reason, I take note that it looks quite dark as a few loose strands sneak out from underneath the heavy cloth.

After the slight clapping dies down, one of the other musicians is kind enough to step up to the microphone and blurt out something so garbled that I can't possibly translate it accurately – something about thanking an audience member on the stage, and I realize he means the pianist himself.

So, my half-delusional mind pieces together slowly, the pianist isn't _really_ part of the band, then, huh? Well, he's still damn good...

And, I notice drunkenly when the slight form stands to shift the seat a bit before launching into the next jazz-infested ditty, _got a damn fine ass on him, huh..._

And that's when I black out.

Damn. Good thing Brian's paying – I can't imagine ever being able to cover that much liquor in one sitting.

_Matty:_

I've been trying hard for a long time. Trying to make this work in my head and in my general life itself. Can't recall when exactly it became a chore to be in this relationship we've had for so long. It's never been "easy," whether it was external circumstances – or, as now, an internal struggle to mean every sentiment I know he needs me to say. To assure him.

But it's no longer an assurance of my devotion; it's now only come down to an assurance that he won't be left alone. An assurance as strong as the occasional ropes – a promise I wish I'd never made. They're just words, really. But the meaning behind them, which I've washed out so I don't have to feel them every time I say it, is far heavier than anything I can carry.

Maybe he's right. Maybe I _am_ a liar. I don't think I was all the time. Before, it was so overwhelming, all I felt. There wasn't a doubt inside me at all. But it just... went away. After a while, it just went _away_. Not even after the first time he startled me with the other side of himself I hadn't been prepared for – even after the first _several_ times... I sought any shred of honesty in his pleading; and I believed it all. Hoping was the next stage, when belief began to fade. Before I knew it, even that had vanished. Yet, even when these nights had become the norm, even when these things were no longer surprising, even when this was known, _expected_, just after letting one thing slip out or making one stupid mistake – still, I remained.

_Why?_

I still felt it. That was why.

But that... even that was a long time ago. These last few years have been less an attempt to keep together something I so preciously want, rather an inability to move. While I used to just want this to work so badly, to prove to myself, to _them_, to everyone, that it _could_ work – it wasn't "traditional" or "normal," but I'd _so_ wanted it to _work_...

I became so adamant about this one point, this vague principle, that I completely ignored the fact that... it was actually _destroying_ us. Even worse, it very nearly destroyed _me_ – _literally_. Now, I can't remember when it was that I last spoke those words of assurance with a heart-felt emotion. It had all become routine – _all_ of it. _Expected_. But he still made me do it, still made me assure him. Still made me carry out all the actions, speak all the endearments, feel all the guilt over the hardships we'd overcome to be like this, together – and what for? For me to abandon him? Over what?

_Nothing, really_.

It wasn't even the pain the began to frighten me. It was the utter _lack_ of anything else. No friends. No money. No life. No worth. No interest. At times, I didn't even feel the _pain_ anymore. That was one of the few things that frightened me, whilst still drowning helplessly in my apathetic despondency.

I'd fallen out of love. And that was years ago. Fallen out of love – and into an exhaustive, numb role of one going through the motions, like washing your hands until they bleed. It's a trap, pure and simple, and I've nowhere to go – and my tunnel vision keeps me from seeing any options.

Basically, he has me right where he wants me – afraid, alone, clinging to him for my life... when all I want to do is _run_.


	2. Chapter 2 Speak To Me

2 - Speak To Me

_Ted:_

Tuesday night, I skip stopping at home and head directly to the bar I've discovered is straight across from the building my fully furnished rented room is in. It took me two weeks to notice it there, but that goes to show you where my headspace was. By Monday night, having had enough of Ricky's nagging to go out again since Thursday, I had to come up with some excuse and decided to tell him I'd found a comfortable little bar to hang out in during my off time. While I searched desperately in a phone book for the name of a random place that seemed to be nearby, I lifted my eyes to the window beside me and saw the sign across the street. It was one of those names that so obviously screamed "gay bar." So I told him – and then, hearing the tone in his voice when he said "_oh_," invited him to come along. He seemed to know the place; he politely declined.

So then I decided on Monday night to live up to my self-proclaimed prophecy and went inside. The bartender – a transsexual named Judy who was quick with her wit and just as fast with her service – was incredibly friendly and noted plainly that she'd never seen me around there before. I told her the circumstances which brought me to London, and as she slid my drink to me, she asked, "Shall we call this the usual,' then?"

After gazing out over the dance floor, which was spaciously separated from the bar area, and taking in all the familiar aspects of the place that I could liken to _Babylon_ or _Woody's_, including all those hard-bodied, inevitably full-of-themselves, unreachable guys making out blatantly and unapologetically in front of others such as myself who were clearly alone and desperate for a partner, I knew I was home.

Just for old time's sake, I went up to five separate guys who didn't exactly spark my interest, but whose superficial images made my dick give a little hopeful cheer (it still hasn't learned), and was not disappointed with their flat-out, undisguised reproach at the mere thought of standing within half a foot of me.

I retreated to the bar area after the final rejection with a huge grin on my face and said to Judy, "'Nother usual, please..."

I'd found my home.

So Tuesday night, I was almost _eager_ to get out of work to go treat myself to more mind-numbing torture. I must be a masochist – things just aren't right when people fail to cringe or look away, pretending they didn't hear me.

My God – is my sarcasm eating me alive or what?

But Judy was a big pull for me – she was one who _didn't_ cringe; but then, she no longer had a cock either, so even if she threw herself at me, I wouldn't be able to make the "attraction" connection in either of my heads.

So I sit at the bar, my back to the crowd of dancers and lovers, and I smirk at my own misfortune – even in another country, I think to myself morbidly, I can't get a date. I almost can't wait for Brian to call again so I can brag to him that my strike-out record has now spread to a second continent.

Well, as I said, I'm not here for that. I can do without it. I've gone for longer periods without sex. Hell, I've been through rehab – it's fucking forbidden until you've cleaned yourself up for more than a year. I think I've actually reached a type of nirvana where the libido can be activated by a manual switch. I'm quite proud of it, really. It's an accomplishment – for a man, anyway.

But from out of nowhere, after sitting there for nearly an hour, on my second "usual," I lift my head and my eyes fall on a certain figure crouched over a table in the corner of the bar area – the corner closest to the actual bar I'm sitting at, no less. And when I take notice of the familiar beanie, I do a double-take... and then I'm practically turning around on the stool before I realize just how conspicuous I'm being and whirl back.

The head raises faintly as I study the reflection in the mirror behind the bar; the eyes remain cast low, and I crane my neck to make out what's so interesting on the tabletop. I realize he's holding a pencil in his hand, very obviously sketching some unknown form into a notebook.

I can't believe I've been sitting here all this time and I didn't notice him! What the fuck have I done since I came in? Oh, hopefully nothing too embarrassing... Oh, why am I even worrying about it? So the boy's a cutie, so what? As if he'd even notice _me_... But then, he _is_ sitting alone, in a bar, on a Tuesday night, practically surrounded by dozens of hot, sweaty, horny gay men... and he's... _drawing_ in a _notebook_...

I clear my throat and wave to get Judy's attention. When she comes to ask if she can fetch me a third, I shake my head, then gesture curiously to the reflection of the pianist in the mirror.

"Hey, Jude, you see that guy there?"

She follows my gaze, then redirects it to the actual man sitting only a few feet behind me. "Who, him? Yeah, what about 'im?"

I lean in closer, trying to be confidential and wishing Judy's voice was a bit higher and softer... like a _real_ woman's... (God, when will those hormones fucking kick in?)

"Do you know who that is?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.

She asks me to repeat it, and when I do, only a touch louder, it takes her a moment to process my voice. Finally, realizing I'm trying to be subtle, she huddles in closer and lowers her own voice (_thank you_), "Oi, yeah, I seen 'im 'round. 'E's in 'ere once or twice every coupla weeks or so."

"Do you know who he is?"

She shrugs nonchalantly. "Dunno 'is name. 'E's the red wine an' sometimes voddy. Thassall I know 'bout 'im, mate. Oh, an' 'e always sits there in 'at same booth, scribblin' 'way at 'is book."

I nod slowly as I take this in, glancing furtively to the reflection again before coughing slightly and asking, "Do you know if... um... he's... y'know..."

She smiles broadly and snickers, "'E's in _here_, ain't 'e? I'd say it's pretty safe to assume 'e's queer..."

I wince, feeling like smacking myself in the face, then cover for that by feigning exasperation: "No, _obviously_ I knew _that_... I _meant_... You know... Do you know if he's, um... _attached?_"

She snorts and waves at me. "I said I dunno 'im. I ain't never seen 'im wif no one, but he's gotten calls 'ere sometimes from a bloke. Guessin' he may be."

I give her an odd look. "If you don't know his name, how does he get calls here?"

She shrugs. "Guy on the line just asks for the little bloke in the blue hat. I asked what name I should call 'im, but the guy on the line just gives a description an' 'at's it. I dunno, some couples're weird, y'know?"

I nod again, feeling myself deflating a bit. "Thanks, Jude."

She grins again, a twisted, knowing grin, and smacks me with her wipe-down cloth. "Anytime, mate – now don't go gettin' shagged wifout settlin' the bill, though, eh?"

I roll my eyes and down the rest of my drink in one go, gathering my courage. I don't care – straight or gay, single or taken, there's at least one thing I know I have to do right now. I just need to find the guts to do it – and honestly, despite my age, let alone my offensively long history of rejection, I still feel a bit nervous as I slide off the stool and force one foot in front of the other – the whole three steps away – until I'm standing at the head of his table.

He's so absorbed in his drawing that he doesn't even seem to register my shadow over the table. I hesitate for a moment, suddenly wondering if he'll mind me coming up to him like this, and for a moment I'm sure I'll turn and take those three gaping steps back to my own stool.

But my mouth seems to have grown a mind of its own, and it wants to speak up about whatever it's thinking...

"Um... e-excuse me?"

There's a slight pause, the scribbling hand freezing instantly when he registers a voice so close to him. But he doesn't lift his head.

"Um... C-Could I, uh... bother you for a second?"

There's another pause, then his head slowly raises, and in an instant, I'm caught straight in the line of fire of his wide, startlingly blue eyes. And for a second, I can't speak – the kid's even more striking up close: high, sharp cheekbones and small, red lips, a long, slim neck craned out of the collar of a shirt that seems three sizes too big for him. His expression isn't exactly the typical glare I get from people who are disgusted by my presence, but it's not completely open and kind as Judy's is either. There's something sweetly innocent, yet vaguely guarded to his alert, clear eyes.

I feel downright uncomfortable in my own skin when I realize I've been standing there for almost half a minute without saying a word, just staring down at him stupidly and trying to figure out what the hell it was I meant to say...

Finally, catching my breath, I blink quickly and regain myself, going on in my typical stuttering, choppy fashion, "Um, hi there, uh... I don't mean to disturb you, or, uh, distract you from... whatever it is you're, uh, trying to do there... Your drawing, I suppose it is... But, uh, I promise I won't take long, I just..." My mouth is rapidly losing its moisture the longer I go on; the more he continues to just sit there staring back at me, unflinching and unblinking, the more unnerving I notice that stare _is_...

"I saw you sitting here, right, and, um, I couldn't help but, um... Well, you see, I-I don't want to give the wrong impression or anything," I add hastily, realizing how I must seem to him – a desperate older man who's just spotted a very fresh green lunch. "I mean, I know it's a bar and I'm sure you'd much rather be approached by, er..." My gaze flickers momentarily out to the dancing crowd before landing back on him. "Well, by someone else, but, uh... um... I-I really don't do this very often," I admit honestly, deciding that it's best to just come clean. "I swear, I really don't even _like_ to – well, it's not that I _don't_ do it, or never _have_ done it, though I'm sure you probably think I haven't, with how well it's going... I just – not that _that's_ what I wanted to do anyway, truthfully, it's not what you think, believe me..."

I hesitate again, amazed by how his face hasn't shifted a millimeter since he first looked at me. That steadiness is uncanny... and a bit creepy, too. Still, I find I'm unable to look away .

"Though, if I had the guts like I had when I was... well, _your_ age, I guess, I still tried even when I knew I'd get shot down, but no, I'm not here to, like, do _that_. So, um, you don't have to worry about me doing that. But I couldn't help noticing you, and I really feel like I need to say something, despite the fact that normally I wouldn't – not that you're someone _not_ to approach, you know, but, like... um..."

He waits patiently as I struggle blindly towards something akin to a "point" – his easy silence is commendable, but then, he's probably just eager for me to get to that point, too.

Won't he be disappointed?

"I'm sorry," I chuckle lightly, rubbing the back of my neck self-consciously. "I'm messing this all up already." I sigh and let my arms fall back to my sides, continuing, "It's just that, well, I've seen you before. Not in here, obviously, 'cos, well, it's only the second time I've been in here and I didn't see you the first time. And, well, I would've remembered if I'd seen you here before – but I mean, that's not why I wanted to come, uh, talk to you..."

Warily, his eyes shifting for a second before meeting mine again, he asks in a voice so quiet that I have to lean over slightly to hear him, "D-Do I... Do I know you?"

"No!" I blurt out quickly, shaking my head vigorously. "No, no, don't worry, we haven't met or anything like that, but I... I _wanted_ to. Not to, uh... come off as an ass – as I'm sure I _am_," I toss in with a snicker. "But no, really – it's just that... I'd ask if it was you, but I don't need to because I _know_ it's you, but I don't really know of any other way to approach someone, especially in bars like this, without seeming like I'm trying to, uh, get something out of you, like, well, um... What people _usually_ come to bars for, you know..."

He eyes me up thoroughly before gesturing to his empty glass, offering, "Drinking?"

"No," I assure him – then have another thought fight that one out. "Well, yeah, okay, there's that. But, no, I didn't mean that. I mean, like, um..." I sigh again, already getting tired of myself. "I'm not trying to pick you up, is all I'm saying, so you don't have to worry, though I'm sure you're not someone who gets passed over a lot," I couldn't help throwing in.

His eyelids flicker slightly at this, but he makes no other perceptible move.

"But I just... I just don't want you to get the wrong idea of my intention by asking you if it's you."

He purses his lips, then squints his eyes at me. "Um...who?"

I gasp when I realize that everything I've just let tumble out probably made no sense whatsoever to this poor guy.

"Oh! I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I don't think I – did I? No, I didn't – I'm so sorry, I thought I did but my brain's a little, um, on overdrive right now, so I thought I did but I didn't – I... I just mean I've seen you before – you played the piano at this club a few miles from here last week – right? I mean, I _know_ I'm right, I knew it was you, but that's where I saw you before, and now that you're right here in front of me..." I laugh out loud, shaking my head to indicate my ultimate all-time low, my stuttering's gotten so bad. "Well, I guess my urge was just to come make sure it was you, even if I was already sure it was – but... Oh, I'm making a jerk of myself, when all I really wanted to say was that I really enjoyed your playing... At the club... Last week."

As I trail off uncertainly, he tilts his head to the side. "Uh... Th-Thanks?"

"No, see, for me, that's a big thing, because you see, um... Not that I'm an expert, but I have my specific tastes, and generally the kind of stuff you were playing wasn't what I'd call my taste in music – I'm not much of a rock or blues man myself. But I absolutely _adore_ opera and classical, and I noticed how you'd improvised some Rachmaninov and Chopin into the music _you_ guys were playing, and I was really _incredibly_ impressed. You're a very talented player - "

"You know Rachmaninov?" he cuts me off suddenly, his tone full of awe and wonder.

I do another double take, startled by his question. "Err... What? Y-Yeah, yeah! Oh God, yeah, I love his work. And your playing was just amazing, the influence there was obvious, but clever as well..."

His eyes grow even larger as he hunches over a bit more, as if trying to get closer to me. "You heard it? Um... W-Wow... I-I guess I just never thought... well, people usually don't even notice the similarities – if they listen at _all_, that is. But you did..."

"Oh, well, yeah – brilliant musician, if you ask me. I'm not exactly a music connoisseur, but I love listening to those pieces... Anyway, I just felt the need to – I _had_ to tell you that, well... you're really..."

I trail off again, too bemused by what I'm about to say for all its inherent cheesiness, but force myself to say it anyway: "I'm sure you get this all the time, but you're really a very gifted pianist. And, um... Well, that's all I wanted to say really. But I just had to say it, officially, from me – not that that really counts for much, but um... I've said it, so, that's what I wanted to say, and I'll leave you to your... um..." I gesture to his notebook and nod knowingly. "...your own devices now..."

Just as I'm turning away, stuck in a ravine of endless self-torture and automatic rejections – like I could just stick a quarter in one of those bubble machines and one's bound to come out – he suddenly stops me with a soft voice that just barely reaches my ears:

"D-D'you... wanna sit down?"

Not believing what I hear, especially after that perfectly jumbled fiasco, I slowly turn to face him again. "Sorry?"

He gives me a sheepish smile and glances down at his notebook, which he's just stopped scribbling in. "Um... No, _I_ am..."

Now it's my turn to be surprised. "Er..."

"_I'm_ sorry," he clarifies. "I'm not very good with people, really," he admits with a staggered chuckle. "Kinda... not used to being approached... at all... So I'm sorry if I came off a bit too cold... Not very good with, er, talking, but... Well, if you're alone... y'know... on your own... If you wanted to sit..."

I realize that he's asking me to sit with him... and I swear I hear a choir of angels in the background – but I refuse to let myself become too lost in the hallucination.

"Oh... Sure, sure..." I easily slide into the booth across the table from him, biting my lip and trying to think of what else to say...

I give him a weary smile. "Thanks. I'm still a bit rusty going up to people myself, y'know," I confess, letting my embarrassment shine through openly. "Spent a lot of time, uh... away from the social scene."

"Yeah," he agrees quietly. "Me too."

I allow a beat to pass before moving onto something else. "Um... Do you mind if I ask you something?"

He raises his eyebrows in question, but doesn't say a word.

"Well," I go on, assuming that to mean _Ask away_, "how long have you had to train to get that good?"

He looks perplexed. "Train? Um... I'm not trained, really."

That announcement... well, it floors me, and it's all I can do to keep my eyeballs in my sockets and my mouth from hanging against my chest.

"You... You're _not!?_"

A bit put off by my dramatic flair, he stammers uncertainly. "Um... no..."

"You're kidding me!" I exclaim, clearly in awe of him – not even bothering to try holding it back to look cool and collected.

He shrugs again, a bit of discomfort on his face, now a touch more pink than before. "N-No... I don't know how to read music. I'm quite stupid about it, really. We couldn't afford lessons when I was young... I didn't know about lessons for a long time, actually. There was just this old piano of my mother's still sitting around... We had it at the house... Um, I just messed about on that as a kid back home. When I came here, we got another one – a bit better, still old, but at least it's in tune this time..."

I sit back, exhaling noisily and absently scratching at my head. "Wow... So you're, like, completely self-taught? Play by ear? That sorta thing?"

His head bobs about in a non-committal fashion, though his words are clear: "Y-Yeah, basically... Like I said, lessons' just weren't an option – but I didn't think I'd _need_ them just to _play_."

"That's... That's really amazing, you know?"

He narrows his eyes at me, but then must get a sense of how much I mean it, because they grow wider, until he's practically gawking at me. "...Is it?"

"Well, yeah!" I cry, insistent that he grasps the weight of his proclamation. "A kid being inspired enough to do something on his own, in his own way, not even registering that there might be a certain _way_ to do it – you were just a natural self-starter, huh?"

"I... guess. Don't most kids do that, though?" He's asking me this in earnest. "Find what they like and just keep doing it?"

"Well, maybe," I reason, "but not so specific or so, um... passionate, I guess is the word. And not usually about playing the _piano."_

"Oh..." He stares down at his hands, which lie limply on top of the notebook, covering the sketch he was working on before. "I just... never thought there was anything else _to_ do. At least nothing that made me feel like _that_ did."

We lock eyes again and I refuse to let him leave the gaze this time, a tiny hint of a smile on my lips.

"You really don't know, do you?" I ask rhetorically.

"Um... Know what?" he replies, answering my question even if he doesn't realize it.

"How rare that is – finding that love and ability so easily?"

Again, he's skeptical. "Um... Is it?"

"Well, yeah – not just anyone can teach themselves to play _Rachmaninov_ by _ear_. If that's not classical training, then that's just... Well, probably a combination of a natural gift and a lot of devotion and discipline – which kids generally just don't have, unless their folks are strict."

"Mmm..." His head tilts back slightly, eyes rolling up to study the ceiling. "I, uh... I guess so?..." He giggles shyly and shakes his head, lowering his attention to his notebook again. "Never really thought about it that way..."

"Were your folks heavily into that?" I press curiously. "Pushing you into things?"

The glinting wonderment and vague sense of reluctant pride instantly begin to abate, and I find myself looking into the face of a much more sorrowful version of the same pianist I'd just made blush with my kind words.

"Mmm... N-No... Not exactly _strict_ so much as, erm... Well, he was more like, just..." He hesitates, eyeing me up momentarily before saying simply, "He's pretty apathetic, really." A sad, empty laugh escapes him, and he shifts uncomfortably in his seat. Just these few slight movements tell me that he's not nearly ready to talk about his family – at least, not to _me_. Fair enough, I understand – so I decide to change the subject.

"So, where do you normally play? Like, performance-wise?"

"Um... Nowhere."

I nearly choke on my own saliva; coughing furiously, ignoring the concern in his face, I repeat, "_Nowhere?_"

"Uh... No – not really. Well, like last week at the club, sometimes the guys there will let me get up and jam with 'em. But only 'cos I go there on nights when I'm..." He comes to an abrupt halt, eyes searching the air in front of him for the correct word. He finally settles on, "Well, when I'm free."

Having gotten over my dramatized version of shock, I shake my head in wonder. "You... You have that kind of talent and you're only using it as an occasional hobby?"

He bites his lip, shrugging helplessly. "There's no way for me to do it for _real_, is there?"

"Oh, I'm sure you could."

"No... I don't think--"

"I'm serous!" I insist vehemently. "Believe me, it might sound crazy to you, but I swear, you _could_ truly do something more with that talent."

"Um..." He's still not buying it. "You really think so?"

"Yeah!" I scoff. "Of course! Look – I love opera, right? Well, I never thought I'd ever be able to do anything with it – I love to sing, but _me_? An _opera_ singer? I'm a fucking _accountant!_ So, okay, I never landed on a real _stage_, but I _did_ get to work as a singing waiter for a time."

He suddenly sputters over a high-pitched giggle, slapping a hand over his mouth and his eyes bugging out. I make a face at him and taunt, "Oh, c'mon, I know you wanna laugh--"

Remarkably, he pulls himself together and shakes it off, asking instead (though still in a slightly shaky voice), "Really?"

"Yes!" I hiss, waving off his bemusement easily. "I know, okay? It sounds funny. But it was actually incredibly fun. I made decent money, I got to sing, I entertained people – something, _believe_ me, I _never_ thought _I_ would be able to do in a million years – and I'm sure I was much older than you are now when _I_ did it. So someone with _your_ talent, at _your_ age- to not use that gift would be... well, it'd be a _sin."_

These specific words seem to strike a chord in him, and his smile fades significantly as he ponders my words. "Um..."

I grimace when I realize how long I've been going on. "Aw, man," I groan, already disgusted with myself. "I'm sorry, I'm gushing, I know. It must be incredibly embarrassing."

He gives a half-shrug, eyes shifting wildly around as he sets his head slightly to the side. "I just..."

"But it's true," I reiterate, my tone low and meaningful.

He can't look at me now for some reason. In fact, he even winces, as if in pain. "I'm just not... used to..."

I hold my hands out helplessly. "What?"

"This," he answers, gesturing to me and himself. "Just... Whatever's going on here, I guess."

I smirk. "You mean being complimented?"

He grimaces, planting a palm on his face to keep his head up. "Being _seen_. At _all_..." He exhales gently and dares to catch my gaze again, telling me timidly, "Look... You said before something about how I must get it all the time – both the compliments and the, uh... _propositions_... But, um... I don't, actually."

I raise my eyebrows at him in disbelief. "_You?_"

"Uh-uh."

"_You_ don't get approached when you're out in public?"

A mere shake of his head is his answer.

I laugh, running a hand through my short hair. "You don't leave the house much, do you?" I cackle. "That's the only explanation I can think of..."

His smile is uneasy, and hard to draw out of him. "Um... No, actually. I don't... But even when I do..."

I nudge his leg underneath the table, startling him a bit, and probably even moreso when he catches my sneaky smile.

"You get invited up onstage to play with the band."

He stops cold again: he's never thought about that before, how he'd gotten up there in the first place. "Oh... Uh... Y-Yeah, okay..."

"See," I explain to him, "if you did that more, believe me, you wouldn't get so tongue-tied when a schlepp like _me_ tells you you've got incredible talent. You'd be rolling in offers for..." I cut myself off as well, rethinking my crude words... "Well, ah, probably a lot more than just to play piano for a scruffy jazz band on a random Thursday night."

He's still unsure of my "gifted" accusation. "Um... I dunno..."

"No," I state matter-of-factly. "I may not the best-looking guy or the most ingenious person around, but I'm a bit older than you and I've been around – I've had my so-called _wild times_. So you can trust me when I tell you – if you _did_ get out more, no one would want you to go back in. Whether they'd want you to play music, or just, um..."

My eyes travel, unchecked, down to what I can see of his upper body above the tabletop. Then slowly back up to the sweet and sharply chiseled thin face. His gaunt features only accentuate the allure of his large eyes and the delicate shape of his small bones. Comparing him to most of the other patrons, he looks downright... _dainty._ There's no doubt in my mind, he'd be the perfect target for one bent solely on pure domination...

"Just to... y'know... _play_."

Everything I say seems to put the poor kid on edge – and _that_ hint certainly doesn't help matters. He scratches his ear, obviously a nervous habit, and mumbles a few more incoherent words.

Feeling bad for putting him on the spot like this, I immediately jump in with, "I'm sorry – was that too direct? I'm not usually like this, I mean it – but seeing as I've already told you I'm not trying to hit on you, I think it's safe to say that... Well, you wouldn't have to worry about any kind of rejection from anyone – you'd need to find a way to get out of a bar like this _alive_... if you crawled out of your solitary corner, that is."

He avoids my attention purposefully, and at his silence, I smirk confidentially.

"Unless, of course, you _prefer_ your corner."

This tugs at his smile a bit more, despite a mere, "Um... Dunno..."

"Oh – nevermind," I sigh, waving it off finally. "You don't seem to be comfortable talking about how amazing you are, even just superficially speaking..."

Up close, I can study his slender hands more thoroughly – and I do so discreetly, watching the long, bony, fidgety fingers toy with the pencil still being clutched and worried at.

The guy startles me again with a hushed, "Well... you don't really _know_ me, is all I'm saying... I could be completely different to how you think I am – or _hope_ I am. Whether that's some sort of brainiac genius or just a stupid wind-up doll. And to be honest, I can't clearly answer that question legitimately – I'm biased against myself, I suppose, though I guess I must have _some_ good qualities... I'm assuming..."

He trails off, as if trying to find a way out of this self-imposed speech he hadn't meant to begin.

When I see his regret over taking some kind of a stand, I decide to show some mercy and pick up the conversation.

"Oh, don't tell me you've actually got a substantial _brain_ in there to boot!" I laugh heartily, causing that nervous smile to appear again. "Someone like you – it's been my experience that a lot of attractive guys don't know the meaning of humility.'"

He just shrugs and averts his eyes; "If I knew 'em, I'd ask if they did."

Once again, I halt, puzzled by his odd choice of words. I blink at him in vague surprise. "Know who?"

"Um... Y'know... Like you said... The guys everyone wants."

"What d'you mean?"

"Y'know – the humility bit. The hot but shallow blokes... Not that I know many – well, I don't know many people at all, really..."

I shake my head, taken aback that he didn't catch it: "You... I-I was referring to _you_."

He seems just as shocked. "M-Me?"

"Yeah – you know."

He mimics my previous head movement, proving that statement wrong – he _doesn't_ know, apparently, that he's fucking gorgeous.

"These guys you just – okay," I correct myself, "the guys _I_ just stand there and stare at enviously – the ones you either wish you could be, or wish you could _have_..." I clear my throat poignantly. "Well, you know..."

The faint smile is back, and I find it's nice to see it. "Guys you wanna shag, you mean?"

"Yeah, that's it."

He glances over his shoulder, peering into the massive crowd in the other part of the bar. "What, like, that one there?" he asks, pointing out some random muscular hunk. "Think he's got brains?"

"Him?" I scoff. "Nah, and who cares, really? I don't."

"You don't think he's hot?"

"Eh... They all are to me, but like I have a chance - these guys would rather I get blown back to my own country than have to acknowledge I exist at all. And quite honestly, at this point I couldn't give a shit about them either. It's rare anymore for me to be impressed by someone, even just judging by appearance. I've been here for a little over two weeks, a completely different country than the one I've lived my entire _life_ in – and my eyes have only been caught by one person so far – though I think it's a pretty big accomplishment, since that one person's managed to, well... blow anyone else outta the water as far as I'm concerned. If I were of a weaker will, I'd be caught to the point of _surpassing Wow, he's hot,' now arriving at 'Fuck, he's perfect.'_"

A chortle from him, as if making fun of my oh-so-precious feelings – and then he's inexplicably back to peering at the crowd again. "So... Okay, which one is it, then? Oi? Who'd you fancy? Anyone in there? You said they're from here, right? I'm sure there's someone..."

I stare straight at him with a heated gaze as he cluelessly searches over his shoulder for someone he thinks I may be "into." I can't help myself; a silly laugh bubbles out of me and I can only hang my head in my hands.

Turning back, he looks utterly bewildered. "What?"

I lift my now red-tinged face again to him and demand, "You really don't see it, do you?"

"See... what?"

Shaking my head, I repeat myself, "Like I said, there _is_ one, but I get the feeling he wouldn't believe me even if I said it straight. I have a hunch he's as self-deprecating as I am. Besides, I'm not here to meet someone special. I gave _that_ dream up years ago. I'm just out to get drunk and maybe make a friend out of someone I would've died to sleep with fifteen years ago. I'm too cynical to have a lover these days, so any opportunity would just be a waste for your talents – especially with fingers that fast."

More confusion arises in his eyes as he asks, "Um... What are you talking about?"

"You know – how you play piano..."

And then that puzzlement morphs into a shocked, unbelieving stare. "Wait – what? D'you mean _me_?"

"Well..."

Scoffing, he scratches at his head with a wry, twisted grin. "Oi, mate, you could throw a dart in here and find someone better to shag, believe me!"

"Yeah," I assure myself aloud. "Like I thought – doesn't see his own reflection."

He toys absently with the pen some more, anxiety surely growing over my overtly flattering remarks. "Um... wish that were true."

"Well, I guess I can't nickname you Narcissus. That just makes it harder to stick with my no-strings rule, though. Nice to meet a hot guy with no ego for once."

By now, the poor kid looks so damn tense that I swear he could pop right out of his too-tight skin.

Seeing this, I decide it's probably best, especially if I want to stay on his good side, if I let go of complimenting his looks so bluntly. It's really too bad he's having a hard time taking kindly to it, though – I could get more graphic if I had enough booze in me and let my mouth run – regularly sopping up the drool, of course.

"But anyway... It's not important. Really. So c'mon: talk to me more about Rachmaninov."

"Eh?"

"Well, like, how'd you hear of him? How'd you teach yourself those pieces? And how the fuck did a brain that can do that end up in_ that_ body?"

So much for cutting back on the come-ons.

Luckily, he seems to have come to grips with the fact that I dig him, but am not about to make a move – that I just like saying these things, or just say them by accident, because they're right there on the tip of my tongue and I can't stop them...

He laughs good-naturedly, shaking his head and patting my arm across the table. "Oh blimey, how much've you had to drink!? I think someone needs to flag you--"

"No, seriously," I insist, "like I said before – you wouldn't have to worry about sleeping alone ever again if you weren't as shy as you obviously are."

Forcing that first impression further, he starts wriggling again. "Erm..."

And I can't seem to be able to give this kid room to breathe – peering at him with a totally unselfconscious and lustful gaze, I murmur, "But then again... maybe that's part of your charm..."

He eyes me up suspiciously. "Charm?"

"Yeah," I answer absently, not even paying attention to what I'm saying anymore. "Well, anyway – like I said before, it's not like I'm _seriously_ coming on to you – I'm just being honest. Believe me, I don't expect you to sleep with me or anything. I swore to myself that I wouldn't get distracted by sex on this trip, so you can relax – I'm not after anything. It's just that you _are_ the first person to impress me in a very... _very_ long time – and you just happen to be... really damn attractive."

Another shy silence, and I can just imagine what he's thinking as he refuses to look at me.

"And you may think I have low standards, considering, well, _me_--"

He snaps his head up and glares at me, insulted by the insinuation that he perceives me just as everyone else does. "I wasn't thinking that at all!" He actually sounds very offended by this... "Cor, that's bloody--"

"But," I interrupt before he can get too hurt, "actually, I've gotten so tired of rejection that I _have_ gotten picky. I guess I just felt like I could approach you because... Well, first, I _was_ nervous to, but I _had_ to tell you how talented you are. And second, someone who knows that music well enough to play it as you can – I'm pretty damn sure no Ricky Martin clone in these clubs gives a fuck about Chopin. Maybe that's a gross generalization, but really – how many people do you know with a CD collection consisting of boygroups and female pop singers also tosses on Tchaikovsky on a Friday night – out of a pure _love_ for it?"

Chewing his bottom lip – a tantalizing maneuver he doesn't register is a teasing turn-on for me – he only mutters, "Dunno... Don't know many people, actually..."

"Well, neither do I," I admit with a sigh. "Actually, I'm pretty new in town, and I'm not here very long, so--"

He glances at me, and when he asks, "You're not?" he startles me by sounding sincerely disappointed.

"Half a year or so," I confirm. "Eh – work. This is only a temporary move."

He nods slowly, sadness creeping into his voice. "Oh..."

Oh my – does he actually seem... _let down _by the thought of me leaving in half a year? I wonder if we've truly struck up such a fast friendship after only one conversation...

"Um... Do you come here a lot?" I hazard.

He catches my eye and knows I'm going somewhere with this. "Sometimes... I've been hangin' out at the jazz club a bit more when I can. Felt a bit down tonight so I came here instead. Easier to concentrate on getting it out," he explains, gesturing to his notebook.

"I was here last night," I enlighten him, as if this is vital information. "I like the atmosphere, you know? And of course I love the bartender. And I also like the fact that you can carry on a decent conversation in one area, and then go have fun in another." I gesture to the separated dance floor, squelching a sudden pang in my gut to want to be a part of that crowd – if only for the sexually superficial bent to it. But no – this is abstinence time! I must be _good!_

"And hey," I add onto my last thought about the bar, "you can carry on a conversation or dance your little ass off while trying to secure a fuck for the night, all without having to compromise essential elements of both activities. I've been thinking I might become a bit of a regular here, in fact... Decent liquor, decent prices..." I fix my eyes on him intensely and incline my head forward. "Decent company..."

The shy smile makes my insides flutter again, so I return the gesture.

"Y'know," he begins, a slightly coy edge to his voice, "I hear that jazz club's a bit on the dodgy side anyway... Dunno yet if I'll be able to get out the rest of the week, but... I don't have any booze at home..."

I nod my understanding. "Mmm – may just have to come out for it, then?"

"I guess so. Besides," he gestures to both of us with a wave of his hand, "I kinda need to work on this whole communication gig – haven't had much practice in a few years. May do me some good."

"Yeah, but your jazz friends could help you out with that, too, y'know," I point out logically.

He reaches out, stretching his arms across the table, being careful to avoid touching me – he only wants to ease the tension in his limbs – which seem quite long for someone of his small size.

"Yeah, but... I _know_ jazz," he replies with a conniving grin.

I don't get his insinuation right away – too many things to choose from.

"I've always been curious 'bout opera," he elaborates. "Never had a chance to learn anythin' of it, though."

"You need to be educated, do you?" I urge.

He's being obviously genuine when he leans toward me, a completely serious look on his face. "It's always seemed interesting to me. But... I never knew what to listen to – how to listen to it. I guess I just... need a guide of sorts. Someone to explain it a bit, I guess." He gives me that sly smile again. "D'you know of someone who could help?"

I lean my head back and put on a pretentious air, reaching over to pat his outstretched arm condescendingly. "Ah – well, then, let me tell you about _Aida_..."

_Matty:_

The monotony gets broken by my jittery anxiety – it's not common that I lose track of time. Even more difficult than the panicked run home from the bar was trying to explain in a rush, without having to actually _explain_, you see, to my new pub mate why it is that I absolutely must be home by ten o'clock – at the _latest._ And even that's pushing it. So when I saw Judy gesturing mildly to the clock on the wall and giving me an awkward glance, as I've asked her to do now and again if I become too engrossed in my drawing, I nearly had a heart attack when I realised how late it was – but I make it home safely before he arrives and get to work on dinner, still trying to catch my breath.

He knows I go out, of course – that's my entire reason for trying to be so good all the time, otherwise he'll forbid it all together. So to be out on my own is a privilege – but if I'm late, if I'm not there when he gets home, that means I'll lose that bit of freedom I've earned for being good. And now I want it more than I have in the past – I _need_ to be good. At least some goal in mind is better than just waiting for the sun to rise. Even if it is all for just a conversation about music with a neurotic oddity whose name I never even got.

I rather like him.

Dinner isn't burnt and by the time he arrives, my heartbeat is at its regular rate. My calm smile assures him I've been good today as I serve him his dinner and listen to him bitch about how listless some students are, despite their parents' hard-earned cash going towards this education they supposedly are so eager to spend on the best named schools. I listen attentively, though I can't really relate – I've never been to college, just picked up this transcription gig on a whim when I insisted on contributing to the "household" years back, even if his salary's the really _important_ one. The one that _matters_.

But I was good today, I remind myself happily, not truly giving a damn about people six years my junior being unappreciative of the opportunity before them when they ditch classes to sit in the sun – as I often did _before_ college age, mind you... I was never a very _exceptional_ student, but I got by all right...

I go over the day's events in my head as I lend half my attention to him, only vaguely shaking my head when he asks if I'm having any of the meal I've made – and I blatantly ignore the slight look of concern he tosses me when he realises it's the second day in a row I haven't eaten. I simply don't want to talk about it. My stomach's still churning from my pub drinks; perhaps this easy, however slight, inebriation is helping in my attitude right now, but I'm feeling pretty good, even if I _am_ playing housewife to a legitimately _intelligent_ man.

Got up to make him breakfast, I think to myself as I watch him chew. Saw him off to work on time. Spent an hour at the piano trying out new chordal arrangements. Did my work online. Had a drink at a pub. Wrote a note to no one but the blank page and scribbled some drawings that may eventually become pieces for him to sell. He always says it, but I doubt he's ever truly sold anything. I never see the pieces again, which I don't really care about – once it's out, it's out, and I have no need for it anymore. Unless a piece is really important to me, in which case I wouldn't give it to him to sell anyway. But even when they disappear, I don't see any cash in return. So I suppose he's either stashing them away somewhere, for once playing at being kind and thoughtful of my potentially bruised feelings if he were to tell me no one wanted them (like I care – it's fun and relieving, but certainly nothing like playing my piano), or he's sold them and just hasn't told me. Or given me the money that's rightfully mine – at least most of it, anyway.

But then, I've let him handle all that. Not that he's listened when I've asked to be shown how to keep a bankbook. He just says he'll show me sometime and then gets on with his cuddling to shut me up. Put it away for later – meaning never. Just comply with his physical needs and I'll be called a good boy so I can leave the flat again tomorrow night.

Maybe see my new nutter friend and get that CD he said he'd loan me of that opera...

Somehow, I feel uneasy mentioning him to my lover – I know what the bloke at the pub told me about how he views this extended business trip, and I know what my current situation means for me personally ("off-limits"). Still... when asked if I enjoyed myself at the pub (always with that slight hint of a sneer that suggests he's not happy that I have a sliver of my life he's not a part of), I fail to mention my conversation with the American bloke. I suppose it's a bit of a rebellious gesture on my part... ammo to use for future arguments. "Well, I've actually _made_ a friend, as a matter of fact – you don't know him, and no, I'm not telling you who he is!"

Not that _I_ even know myself...

I've never been very rebellious – the most rebellious thing I've done was to come with John. That was mostly shocking only to the outside world because of the age gap – nevermind the school relation; as far as everyone else knew, we hadn't gotten together until years after he'd actually _been_ my teacher.

I reiterate, as far as _they_ knew...

Back then, I was so enamored of him, of being fancied at all, at a time and in a town where realising just how different I was to ninety percent of the rest of the population (and that elusive ten percent apparently hid in vampire caskets all the time, as I never came across anyone else but John) was stifling to me. I was taken with him from the first day I saw him at the head of the classroom, but it was a good long time – nearly the end of the year he had me in his class – before we finally _connected_, in that vital way that told me that I wasn't alone in my quirkiness. So I fell madly in love – even moreso when I realised the exact reason why he'd assigned me the seat directly in front of his desk in the classroom.

And then I fell in love with the chance to escape that other world I despised so passionately... as passionately as I loved him, I insisted. So of course it was pure poetic beauty when he offered to take me away with him, and I eagerly agreed...

Only to create my own living hell behind locked doors in another city years later. I used to be grateful that he whisked me away from the belligerence I endured for too many years in my family's home; now, I'm sometimes grateful I'm not to see anyone of relation or formative friendships – not because I still want to get away from them out of disgust for their narrow minds or fear of their disapproval of our "alternative lifestyle," but lest they see what I've done to myself. My silly pride – how would I ever explain?

Even now, devoid of this love I so utterly absorbed myself in as a naive, young fool, I prefer not to have questions asked or eyebrows raised. I don't even have to resort to shoplifting women's facial cover-up anymore – it would have been too embarrassing to approach a make-up counter as such a small, somewhat effeminate bloke: no doubt, there would be snickers behind my back and utterings of "twisted pervy" once I'd finished shopping. But there's been no need for years to obtain the virtual mask to blot out these markings that could make someone not involved in this volatile relationship question it.

Besides, the visible reminders cause him a heartache for days after. Call it my own passive-aggressive manner of asking what I'd done that was so bad to earn this stain of ugliness.

Though sometimes it backfires – sends him into an even greater frenzy of misdirected hatred. Only digging the proverbial knife deeper. And he has no qualms about buying the make-up.

"Put it on. Don't want to see it. Stop pushing me with that bloody silent look, you manipulative little whore."

And I'll be a good boy. Erase the purple and yellow with a color to match my sun-deprived complexion. On go the long-sleeved shirts in summer, the ones that cover my entire hands along with the raw wrists.

At times I've regretted that he started stashing the ropes where I can't find them, since he came home early once to find me attempting an improvised makeshift noose. Won't let me do it. He's even hidden the knives from me during certain darker periods, and not because he thinks I'll use them against _him_.

Sometimes I lay awake at night and fantasise while I listen to him sleep – if only I'd been stupid enough to go out on the streets too young. One potential night of gut-wrenching, mind-fucking, gruesome violence – and then it could have been over.

Instead, I've chosen the long, slow, torturous, humiliating drainage of one pain-filled night followed by half a dozen ones overflowing with empty apologies and hollow promises. A trickling, dripping exhaustion of any emotion or care. Becoming so accustomed to the degrading names, the foul descriptions – that when a genuine term of endearment is aimed for me, I panic.

_What is this!? What should I do with it? Oh, cor, it aches my insides and freezes my chest – no, it's not right, where are the things I KNOW?! The ones I know how to digest? This isn't recognisable, but it feels... painfully... GOOD..._

To think of these warm words and the friendly smile that spilled them...

"All right, love?" His stare is penetrating.

I have to scratch my nose to keep my eyes from welling up again. "Mm."

He studies me closely. "You been cryin'?"

I blink until I'm safe, then force a tight-lipped grin and shake my head. "Mm-mm. Just a bit of a sniffle."

His gaze turns wary, and I don't like the look in his eyes. "Hm. You were out last night – _and_ tonight. Comin' down with somethin'? Maybe best to stay in tomorrow, then."

_Fuck!_ "Mm. I'm all right. Nothin' to worry over."

_You will NOT deny me this temporary escape, goddamnit. _That's the most rebellious I can get now.

I rebel by giving him all he wants, as soon as he seems to want it. His quirked eyebrow causes a hesitation – he suspects something. I tone it down a bit. Distract him with a cautious nudging under the table. He takes the subtle hint and runs with it. Pushes dinner aside and pulls me onto his lap.

And while he takes his time with undressing me halfway, thinking his touches are what urge me to act so wanton tonight, I lose myself in another daydream. Hoping in the back of my head that this time he won't be disappointed in me – just don't fuck it up. It's a tightrope I walk daily. The tension in my gut causes sharp pains to shoot through me, overwhelming any pleasure I can manage to derive from his caresses – pains originating from deeper inside of me than he could ever possibly reach physically. But I can endure it, my body's coping with starvation and mistreatment, not to mention his physical intrusion. I'll relent willingly and let him believe this tiny bit of bliss I allow myself is brought about by his actions – though, truth be told, the same fantasy he's oblivious to runs through my head whenever we fuck like this, the mere abstract idea of true freedom being the core force behind my yearning gasps and tight-fisted grip on his shoulders. That pure, indescribable sensation is more alluring and arousing than any inkling of an impending orgasm to me, the longing to be away from him acting as the only catalyst to my wandering imagination.

He tells me constantly that he doesn't like doing things the hard way – but those are the times he insists I'm making him be that way. The more I deny him, the harder he'll push – and then shove the blame entirely onto me. I'd asked for it. He'd warned me, and still my begging only aggravated him, to the point of feeling the need for violence – therefore I brought it on myself. I should _know_ not to cause him distress by turning him away when he wants me – it only encourages his longing. Or so he says. My cruelty in withdrawing from his groping hands infuriates him – so why don't I just be _good_? It's not like anyone else would want me – I should be _grateful_ that he willingly puts up with me. And my compliance, even when I don't want to be touched – that makes this rough, twisted version of a misnamed "lovemaking" easier on him _and_ me, he says – though I've still never caught him losing a boner over me being in enough pain to degrade myself to pleading tearfully for relief. But to point this out would only create more cause for anger.

A parasitic, cyclic entrapment.

So tonight I'll be a good boy. Even let him hear my voice, for once not strangled with sobs, but tinged with more encouragement.

By the time he comes inside me, I'm content with the knowledge that I'll be swapping more musical trivia with the bloke from the pub again tomorrow. I've been a good boy, I've not angered him or put him off in any way, and I've let him have his dessert shag after dinner. Hell, I'm so bloody inspired by this hopeful turn of events that I lay an almost genuine snog of thanks on him after. I've become a whore for an illusion of freedom.

So why the fuck is he giving me that look as I pull away?

Before I get my trousers back up, he reminds me I haven't had my turn.

Bloody hell.

"I'm fine--"

He won't take no for an answer – forcefully so when I actually _say_ it aloud.

_Fuck_... No, not like this – don't let tonight end like _this_, for God's sake, I've worked so hard to be good...

"Don't I turn you on? What, you don't find me attractive? So you're just gonna get me off and that's that? Like I'm your fucking _john_..."

And my nearly evaporated true self, the one tiny spark of the person I could very well have turned out to be, had I not come with him all this way, for so many years – it proves its stubborn existence (albeit meager) when, in a moment of frustration (_what do I have to do to PLEASE you!?_), I lose track of my usually well-trained tongue...

"Well, it _is_ your name, after all, may as well live up to the title, eh?"

I should know better than this. An offhanded comment in that sneering tone I know damn well he despises from me, a flippant, arrogant quip to his insulted queries--

_Fuck_.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, please, John – I'm _sorry!_ I won't – I didn't mean it – _please_--"

But no amount of pleading will alleviate these pains, brought on by a fiercely clenched fist in the hair and careless dragging to where I don't want to go – not those bloody fucking ropes again, god_damn_it...

As I said, I'm so bloody grateful no one else has to see me like this. But now, looking how I do, this mess I call a face and this sluggish ache I call my body...

Best spend my revoked night of freedom finding a decent enough shade of "pale" that will go with my apology to my new pub friend tomorrow. If he hasn't written me off already, that is, for standing him up tonight. But these goddamn tears keep fucking up my attempts to cover the bruises. Shaking hands aren't much help either. Third day without substantial food.

I know tonight will be better. I promise myself this despite the tremors wracking my body, causing me to nearly destroy the meal that makes me sick to look at. No weakness or apathy or irritation is going to ruin this tonight.

Tonight, I'll do this _right_.


	3. Chapter 3 Eye of the Beholder

_3 – Eye Of The Beholder _

_Ted:_

By nine-thirty, I'm pretty sure the cute brunette isn't gonna show. Judy casts me sympathetic glances from the bar as I sit in the booth alone and nurse my drink. I play it off like it's nothing, only smiling back absurdly at her like I don't know why she looks so pitying – but underneath, I can't help feeling disappointed.

But there are plenty of reasons why I shouldn't let it get to me, my logical accountant mind tells me even as I attempt to drown my intentionally ignored painful twinges in alcohol. The number of possibilities as to why he doesn't show are numerous – of course, my fragile ego being what it is, my first and typical instinct is to roll my eyes and think terrible things about him to try and make myself feel better: just another intellectual poseur; was only lonely for one night and needed some free compliments from a poor, desperate sucker like me; woke up this morning and came to his senses, once the hangover wore off. That kind of thing.

Giving him the benefit of the doubt, however, there's also a good chance he just couldn't make it out because of some emergency or obligation; maybe he was too tired; maybe he just got so busy with something else that he forgot – we never discussed what it is that _he_ does for a living, so it could be anything from peaceful gardening to a hectic emergency room. He could be up to his elbows in human intestines right now, and that's why he can't possibly be sitting across from me, listening intently as I tell him about the little slut who struggles to decide if she wants to stop fooling around and having fun for true love or just remain a party girl for life...

More than likely, though, I finally settle on, he just didn't feel up to it; he _had_ mentioned briefly that he hadn't been sure if he'd be able to make it out for the rest of the week. It wasn't as if we'd made actual plans to meet or anything; even if he'd show up this instant, as I peer hopefully at the door (which, sadly, doesn't budge an inch while I stare at it), he wouldn't really be upholding an obligation... a _date_...

Hell. I wasn't supposed to do this, remember? An average conversation about music with one fairly attractive guy doesn't mean much – it's certainly not the end of the world if I don't meet that rather nice person ever again.

...Okay, even a very _enjoyable_ and genuinely _intriguing_, full-fledged _discussion_ with a _gorgeous_ and _remarkable_ young man... (whose imprinted image on my brain lent energy to my expert jerking hand last night before being able to sleep) ...doesn't exactly mean there was a true connection between us as I'd thought – maybe this just means that I'm hungrier for sampling the local homegrown Brit-boy cuisine than I thought I would be.

Or maybe that specific kid, who had trouble speaking at all, and then had trouble keeping the nervous smile off his face when he _did_ start speaking, really just got under my fucking skin and refuses to be forgotten for a very good reason.

_Shit_.

So, even with my easy grin and forced chipper goodnight to Judy, I can't help but feel let down when I leave the bar alone – no earlier than ten-thirty, mind you, despite his stammering, inexplicable apology to me last night for having to be home by ten o'clock at the _latest_ – and cross the street to my rented room.

I try to tell myself it doesn't matter as I change into comfortable sweats and put on _Aida_ again – it's not like I was supposed to actually expect... _hope_... that something would happen. Just as all my other blown chances, I know I have to let this one go. Might as well not even bother, really. Only leaves me feeling tired and depressed. I can't let this ruin my stay here, I decide, and bury myself in work I've brought home for the following few hours before finally being too tired to keep my eyes open. Thankfully, my concentration is stellar, and by the time I crawl under the covers to pass out – hoping I won't have another goddamn dream that wakes me up with a raging boner – I've nearly forgotten about that... impossibly infectious grin I so wanted to see tonight.

But not tomorrow, I decide as I drift off. Tomorrow will be all about work. My last few years working for Brian have taught me that I'm far more versatile than just any accountant, so I'm sure I'll be able to weasel my way into different projects to keep my mind off of... things...

Despite this oath I take before falling asleep on Wednesday night, I still spend all of Thursday dragging my feet and moping around the newly opened company building. I go about my business as usual, albeit with a slightly more quiet, less demanding air than is typically necessary in this sort of career position. By lunchtime, I actually start to enjoy some of it, to the point where bits of the disappointment from last night start to ebb. And as I oversee operations, attend various meetings and fix random computer glitches, I'm laughing and joking with coworkers and employees, the work itself reminding me why I was surprisingly grateful when Brian gave me this opportunity.

And as quitting time approaches, I know exactly where I'll end up heading when I climb into that rented car and remind myself which side of the fucking road to stay on...

Well, my feet had a different opinion, apparently. They didn't seem to care much for meeting up again so soon with that wall-to-wall carpeting in my furnished room.

Judy serves me my third "usual" at the bar tonight with nary a word about being stood up Wednesday. I'm silently glad she doesn't mention it, after all I went through in my head to keep from feeling regretfully stupid this morning for giving myself such a ridiculous illusion, and then throwing myself almost violently into my work for an obscene amount of hours after lunch.

The liquor tastes especially good to my palate for some reason tonight. This is why I have no qualms about downing the third one with very little discretion, then nag Judy for a fourth.

So when there's a familiar shuffle a few feet away as the door opens – and I inadvertently give in to the habit of turning to see the newcomer – my heart leaps for joy when I see the familiar pretty face smiling bashfully as he slinks through the door and comes toward me.

"Oi," he greets us as Judy pours my fresh glass. He offers her a small smile, which she returns kindly – though it shifts slightly into vaguely smug when she catches _my_ eye. She glances back to him and raises her eyebrows in question, and he nods his assent to the unspoken offer for _his_ usual – a tall glass of red wine. Then, fixing an ashamed twist of his small red lips toward me, he sighs and looks appropriately put out.

I'm only given a split-second to study him, but it only takes that long for me to instantly wipe away any doubts I may have had about the initially kind first impression I got of him two nights ago. Even before the words come out, it's obvious that not being here wasn't entirely his choice. In fact, he sounds a bit winded now, as if he rushed to get here, or is so anxious to relay to me how he'd only missed me last night to his own chagrin. He must have had a good reason, then, and if the sincere shake of his head isn't convincing enough, the mere state of him is: the natural shadows that often surface under the eyes of the overworked and weary seem more like bruises against the contrast of his pale skin, which actually looks more white than I recall. But he doesn't give me a chance to comment on how troubling his appearance could be construed, as he quickly launches into his heartfelt apology.

"I'm so sorry about last night," he blurts, not even pausing to consider his words, or how to make them sound more intelligent or whatever. He doesn't bother at all with enacting a typical "cool" front about it not being a big deal, as most guys (including myself, unfortunately) who know they've done something rude usually try to pull off. He seems to be genuinely sorry that this informal, unplanned set-up get-together had not happened.

So just as quickly, any prematurely formed grudge I've unconsciously been working into a great ball of yarn – and then denying its existence when it nags at the back of my mind – suddenly crumbles away as I assure him, "Oh, don't apologize. It wasn't like it was a _date_ or anything, y'know – I already told you I'm not after that..."

Fucking compulsive liar...

He gestures faintly to "our" booth with his burdened hand – always with a notebook, just as he mentioned in passing sometime during the course of our conversation on Tuesday- and inclines his head in question. I wordlessly accept and slide into the booth across from him as he thanks Judy for his drink and joins me.

Just as I'm about to start wondering where the hell we pick up this connection that was so suddenly broken the other night, he cuts into my thoughts with a very logical – but seemingly out-of-place – remark.

"Funniest thing occurred to me only seconds after I ran out on Tuesday – I don't even know your name."

I smirk, chuckling as I realize he's right. "Oh, yeah – we never actually got to formal introductions, did we?"

"Guess we were too caught up in trying to remember complicated Russian composers and Italian sopranos to worry about what our mothers called us, eh?"

"I guess – well, mine's much easier to remember than Mussorgsky or Berlioz." I hold out my hand by reflex, as is usually the case and has been my typical routine after these last few weeks of meeting new people through work. "Ted. Ted Schmidt."

He returns the gesture with a notably paler, slender hand, and his slight grip is quite a contrast to the usual hands I've shaken recently as well – just one moment of contact, but I already can tell a bit more about him by how his fingers gingerly brush against my skin: it's not the clutch of a motivated business man; it's not the strong grip of a man out to prove something either. In two seconds (and believe me, I've never been one to fool myself into thinking I can read a man by the power of his handshake, but his touch was so much more _unique_ than anyone else's I'd felt before), I had a lovely image, more abstract than the already striking face in front of me, of whom I was dealing with: a pure soul, a natural artist, perhaps even a bit of a tender, sensual romantic... certainly not a burly man's man, nor a weasly career-monger. Not even a stereotypical _gotta-have-it_ horny _queerboy!_ (Like most of the patrons of _Babylon_... and _Woody's_... and even this bar here...) It's startling, to say the least, when, in just a few seconds, I go from trying to pretend not seeing him last night was no big deal – to just feeling like I've been grazed by the pulsating fragment of a wayward star.

"I'm Matty," he informs me as I unintentionally tighten my own firm but unobtrusive hold on him the moment he casually attempts to pull away.

For a suspended moment, as his eyes catch mine in confusion when I don't let go of his long fingers, I find myself lost in his gaze, temporarily paralyzed by the endless, bright midnight blue trained on me.

"Y-You okay?" he asks, watching me carefully.

I swallow hard and glance down at our joined fingers, reluctantly retrieving my own when I recall that a handshake is nothing to get gushy over.

"Fine," I laugh lightly, my brain shooting into full speed again when I realize how ridiculous I must seem, practically close to salivating over one simple touch. "Just fine – your hands are just... unusual," I croak out, not doing any kind of justice to the reaction I truly just had over feeling his soft skin for the first time.

He scoffs at that, as if embarrassed – totally misinterpreting my poorly slapped-together excuse for my staggered release of him

"I know – they're almost disproportional to the rest of me. It's kind of disturbing, I guess, but it helps with playing piano."

I nod slowly, my attention lingering on the long white digits as they settle (only for a moment – he's quite fidgety, even when he gets closer to what he considers to be a "comfort zone") on the tabletop between us.

"I'll bet," I utter, biting my lip as I let my imagination run wild... And once again I slip into some altered state of consciousness as I wonder over such details as tastes, sounds, the warmth of a soft breath...

Abstinence _what? _Platonic _who?_ What was that nonsense I was telling myself only a few days ago...?

Without checking myself or letting him go on about his "freakishly long limbs," I murmur quietly, "They're beautiful."

The timid, giggling voice dissipates, and after a moment of awkward silence, I lift my gaze to him and blink, slowly coming out of my hypnotized state. Surely the liquor must be playing with my head, I assure myself inwardly. I can't possibly be so easily swayed into these... _ludicrous _fantasies with the object of those daydreams sitting right in front of me – especially not after I've already promised myself not to go getting mixed up with anyone in such a fashion during my stay here.

Of course, I hadn't truly intended to completely ignore my needs if I did feel overwhelmed with sexual urges – but I've always tended to be a bit more of a romantic myself, and so I stoically decided not to consciously get involved with anyone, on any level, lest I stupidly slip into some kind of illusion of... well, something more than just _fucking_. Probably be best to go find someone to screw around with at the last possible moment, preferably just someone I could _tolerate_, or who would condescend to treat _me_.

None of this... obsessive, genuine, soul-sucking _caring_ that's gotten in the way so many times in the past. And nearly devastated me.

So I can't possibly let myself believe that any of these things in my head are real. Or even smack of potential.

And when I finally register the curious expression on his face as he peers at me, half worried for me and half uncertain of whatever it is that's going through my head at the moment, I remind myself not to get so caught up. No matter how fucking alluring it may be. I can do this; I've kicked worse habits, right? I can flip the bird to a deceivingly lovely indulgence which will inevitably end in crushing humiliation...

I clear my throat, regaining my composure, and force myself to smile benignly at him. "What? Oh, sorry – must be the booze. Just a little spacey tonight..."

He blinks a few times, his concern melting into a pleasantly sheepish smile, and he nods, adequately reassured.

"You said Matty, right?" I clarify.

He continues his nod, smoothly overcoming his own start over my rather strong reaction to such a menial gesture as a handshake.

"Yeah... It's just what my mother used to call me," he explains airily. "I guess because I've always been so small, and because I'm the youngest... Erm... Well, technically, I was her _only_ child, but I was the youngest in the house, anyway..."

He tries to describe his complicated family life in only a few short, stumbling words, as if he's not keen on rambling on about them, or even finishing three complete sentences about them at all. He's quite clearly uncomfortable with this subject, and he shows it in the way he shifts his body repeatedly and lets his eyes dart around the room, looking everywhere but at me. And he finishes by mumbling, "It's just a nickname, really. It just stuck, I guess."

Even as he tells me of his father's several wives before he was born, his numerous step-siblings, and even as he shivers when he mentions a specific older stepbrother who lived with them when he was a child – then tries to play it off like it wasn't the revolted shudder my eyes clearly witnessed – my mind can't help but continue to argue with itself over what it's taking in and how it's reacting to it.

_Damn_... Promises I made to myself weeks ago seem unimportant as I watch his lips move, see his gesturing hands flail in the air before fumbling absently with that same blue beanie he won't take off, or unconsciously rubbing at his neck, or jerkily tugging at the cuffs of his shirt sleeves to keep them at least halfway over those ivory hands I love to let my eyes linger on.

_Damn_... I can't possibly deny that with one mere brush like the one I felt as he unknowingly jolted me to life with one handshake, the connection between us is unmistakable. I can even confidently say, without wishful thinking, judging by that inability to look me in the eye now and the relapse of quirky grins and half-smothered giggles, that it's not just my own imagination: this is completely mutual.

And then it hits me.

_Oh shit_.

He finally gathers the strength, following a long pause after hurriedly glossing over his barely-existent family, to look at me straight again, and I hold his gaze steadily

_Fuck. I'm in **so** much trouble..._

Before I can start belittling myself internally with strict reminders of why I don't want to get involved with anyone, not even this paragon of my eventual downfall across from me, he takes the reigns and clears his throat, straightening up in his seat and scratching absently at – _God, maybe I just shouldn't fucking __**look**__ at him_ – his long, slender bare neck.

"My friends picked up on the name too, then. One of my stepbrothers, the one who lived with us, he used it in a kind of... degrading way, I guess. But it's just what people called me. Not Matt, not my real name, nothin' else, really. Just Matty. I guess I've always just given off some kind of air of... um..."

I smirk, suggesting coyly, "Cuteness?"

He flinches, but doesn't protest or deny it; he's already resigned himself to his doom: he's just too damn _cute_, and he _has_ to know it somewhere in his head, despite refusing any other nice things I had to say about his looks the other night. If anything, I guess, he'll reluctantly take "cute" – even if he doesn't seem like he could ever learn to wrap his head around my own opinion of... well, _beautiful_.

"Well," he sighs, obviously tired of my unending insistence of his appealing face, "whatever about that – I was actually wondering about something else..."

I take a long sip of my drink and raise my eyebrows. "Hmm?"

He looks at me with a glint of hope in his lovely eyes. But it's tainted slightly with a hint of regret. "I wouldn't expect you to, since I fucked up and got stuck at home last night, but you wouldn't, by any chance, have that CD you mentioned on you, would you?"

I cringe as I tilt my head to the side, resettling my glass with a hiss: "Damn, I swear to God--"

"Don't worry about it," he chuckles, quickly and easily waving it off. "Another time, then..."

_Shit. Ohh, shit. Goddamnit. That implies he wants to do this again, even after tonight. He genuinely got held up by something last night – but he **wanted** to be **here**, but couldn't be... Fuck..._

I nod my assent, though it's permeated with regret. "I'm sorry, I had it in my briefcase, but I left that at the office tonight..."

He shakes his head. "No big deal. Next time, then? Or the time after? Whenever, really..."

I stare at him openly now, not even able to attempt hiding how I love doing it.

"Yeah. Next time. I promise to bring it next time."

He smiles gratefully and gestures to my casual suit. "Even clean up nicely when just going out for a drink, eh?"

I shrug carelessly and lean forward on my folded arms on the tabletop. "I don't have the most enthralling wardrobe. I think I left my tie in the car, which is a damn shame – it plays _Jingle Bells_ when you press the reindeer's nose..."

He bursts out laughing, all tension and discomfort from any of my previous comments about his looks and his draw forgotten as he revels instead in my quirky humor.

Relatively composing himself, he finds a stable enough voice to comment, "Well, I've no singing ties, unfortunately, and really I'm quite drab when it comes to a wardrobe, obviously even moreso than you..." He gestures vaguely to his black sweater – similar to the one he wore last time, except this one has red strips sewn along the seams and hems of the entire thing. "Mine's all pretty much along the lines of this. Not very imaginative in the clothing department. No caroling animals or anything of the sort... Though what's funniest about all of it, I think, is that you're wearing a _Jingle Bells_ tie in the middle of April..."

I chuckle along with him over our mutual issue of having severely fashion unconscious asses – trying to remain quiet so I can hear his contagious giggles over my own, and refusing to blink in case I miss a second of that obscenely charming smile.

Yup, I knew it. I'm in deep shit.

_Fuck. I want him._


	4. Chapter 4 Synesthesia

4 - Synesthesia

_Ted:_

In three weeks, Matty learns more than he's probably ever wanted to know about accounting, setting up an ad agency, and my friend/boss Brian. But I decide he must have been born and raised in a cave, because not only does he listen intently to every word of complaint or praise that I spew forth – he actually seems _interested_, and asks _questions_, and laughs... at _appropriate_ times (which is tons more than anyone else has ever picked up on). His initial education of opera not only grows as the nightly meetings go by (except weekends – and they are, for the first time in my life, the longest and dullest days for me anymore), but also gradually morphs into a history lesson on... well... _me_.

Somehow, in that sweetly oblivious way of his, he easily pulls from me some of the most guarded and precious incidents in my life – the bully-infested childhood, the awakening to my sexuality, the secret crush I harbored on my longtime friend Mikey, the near-death mishap with crystal meth... even, as vaguely as I skim over it (and he politely refrains from pushing when he picks up on the feeling that I'm not keen on dwelling on it), my darker times hooked on the very thing that once almost did me in.

In only three weeks, he's probably gathered enough information on me to write a biography.

Okay – so it may amount to something more like a novella, and one only he, my mother and two or three friends would buy, but it's still more than most people I've dated have ever discovered – or _wanted_ to discover – about me. Even my longest relationship, with Blake (and what a twisted tale of irony and heartache _that_ turned out to be, not only for myself in retelling it, but for the compassionate listener as well – I could see it clearly in those devastating eyes), didn't touch on some key details in my past that I somehow felt completely comfortable and natural telling Matty.

But then, the illusion of this would-be love affair is shattered every weeknight, when he reluctantly parts from the bar wearing that same expression – like he's going to be ill, or the booze has gotten to him finally (though I've been assured it's got to be something else – English men are apparently born with a certain level of alcohol already invading their bloodstream... well, at least according to Judy, but then she _does_ tend bar for a living...).

He didn't hold out on me intentionally the first few nights as to his curfew and why weekends were out, mind you – we simply got so wrapped up in our conversations that by nine forty-five, he was swearing and literally _jittery_ as he packed his notebook (which he was, by the way, incessantly scribbling in as we spoke, though he never missed a word I said and often wasn't even watching as his hand moved) away into his backpack and rushed out with apologies to me for having to "cut it short" so quickly. Evidently, though, "cutting it short" was more like "cutting it close."

Finally, I solved the problem by setting my watch alarm for nine-thirty. He laughed the fourth time we got together and I showed him this. And when I took the opportunity while we were on the subject to inquire about this mysteriously rigid schedule, he proceeded to quietly break my heart.

"My lover gets home around ten and I promised to have something to eat ready for him."

Of course... Why _wouldn't_ someone like this already have been snatched up by someone faster... younger... more attractive... basically, anyone else in the world?

"He works for more hours than he needs to or really should, but he's one of those severely dedicated professors who really wants his students to _learn_, so by the time he gets home after a trying day in and out of classes and meetings with students, not to mention the long drive in insanely busy and infuriating traffic, he's only really in the mood for eating, and if he's still got some fight left in him, maybe a shag or something equally... er – energy-draining... Suffice it to say, he does a lot, so I feel like the least I can do is cook a decent meal for the bloke, y'know?"

I held back on the snide kept-housewife jokes that evening; but I can't say it didn't dig into me like a scythe.

Luckily – perhaps because he was feeling guilty for connecting so strongly with someone apart from his lover when he made out like the guy did so much for him – he just brushed over it and didn't – or at least _pretended_ he didn't – pick up on my barely-veiled disappointment.

I didn't want to go prying into what wasn't my business, even if I readily went on about myself at Matty's simple cues, but I couldn't help wondering why Matty was so keen on me when his words of praise for his lover seemed so insistent – and why did he want me to know so badly what a great guy he was anyway? Or was there something behind those eye-contact-avoiding moments when he giggled foolishly and then asked me hurriedly about my day? Like he admired and loved the bastard – er, man – but didn't want to mention him... for his own sake? Or did he not want me to feel like he was competition? Or was he exaggerating – even flat-out _lying_ – about his affection for his supposedly heroic _"lover"_?

But then my own words would ring in my head, crashing into my brain: _I'm not after sex; I promised myself I wouldn't get involved; I'm here for business, and maybe a nice friendly chat with someone worth talking to._

Even my conscious mind was now happily forgetting these oaths – oaths which Matty, apparently, felt the annoying need to respect.

So I'd cursed my own already feeble chances with someone I could normally _only_ fantasize about being _just this_ close to.

Still, I kept going to the same booth every night after that automatically assumed "stay off" sign was thrust in my face, and he kept showing up night after night, looking relieved and hopeful through the fragile, pale exterior – but eager and curious as well, which was a good sign to me. As each day passed, in fact, he seemed to gain more of a light in his eyes, an energy to his movements, and his smiles and laughs came more easily than when I'd approached him that first night. At one point, I remarked to him that he didn't seem quite as glum as he had initially.

"Well, I've been doing well," he replied reasonably. "I haven't fucked up in weeks – _and_ I've actually managed to make a new friend. And a pretty cool one, at that," he chuckled – then shattered his own claim by handing back the latest opera CD I'd loaned him to copy.

So he thought I was cool. And, damn me, he may have even been up for a little action if I'd not doomed myself that first night with my own ridiculous assurances. In fact, aside from the night I nearly got a boner from a mere handshake, there were several _other_ similar moments in which I would have staked my life on the suspicion that, had I not said what I did, providing lover or not, he would've joined me in crossing the street for a more private venue to... let me "hear his soprano," so to speak...

Yet, as trite as it sounds, our multiple hours every night of conversation managed to easily become something close to a substitute for that ultimate physical goal of... well, getting in his pants, to put it bluntly. Even for sweet little ol' me – who may be perceived as "kind" (or, in Brian's words, "a sap") but still has his yen for full-on emotionless _fucking_ at times. (Let's not get into my friend Emmett's attempt at a "masturbation intervention" years ago – I'm still trying to erase the shame, humiliation... and downright factual knowledge that the incident only proved him to be the world's biggest _blow-it-like-a-cock-outta-proportion_ drama queen.)

Yes, I may get just as rabidly horny as the next shameless fag whoring around the backrooms of _Babylon_, but strangely enough, just talking to Matty on such a regular basis was simply... enthralling for me. Torturous and wet-dream-inducing as well, but enthralling nonetheless. We didn't always rant rabidly to each other about the overwhelming emotions of various music and productions that influenced us or got our juices flowing – though we also didn't have nightly reruns of "Ted's Traumatic Life Story" either – but simply sitting with him, hearing his voice, watching his gesticulating hands and mesmerizing body language, listening to his ever-changing tones and contagious giggles – it was like a lightning bolt of life igniting my blood.

I may have been encouraged to yammer on senselessly about my own personal experiences, but he wasn't quite as easy a nut to crack in that respect. He referred to a few things in his past, but only rarely – like his (_insert mysterious shudder_) stepbrother and his (_insert dreamy-eyed daze_) mother's piano. He tended to focus more on the present when I asked about his own life – and much of that was conveyed pretty abstractly as well. Where he could probably give any cop who asked my physical description, birthdate, city origin, general life and family histories, past and present jobs, etc. - I would probably only be able to provide insufficient knowledge of inconsequential random bits about Matty.

"Mid- to late-twenties... 'Matty' isn't his full real name... Originally from some small town near Cambridge in England... He's been invading my sex dreams for weeks with his blue beanie cap and pianist's fingers... He giggles like a girl, but if you really get him going he can sound like a cross between a strangling cat and a hyena... I think, no matter what story he concocts about a true experience with another human being (which he hasn't told me yet), he may very well have given his virginity quite enthusiastically to his mother's piano... He either fiercely loathes or is utterly terrified of one of his many stepbrothers closest to his age (but still a good six or seven years older)... His lover's a college professor, so with a simple job transcribing medical correspondence, he probably feels far inferior and downright stupid in comparison (but he damn well isn't as far as I'm concerned)... And he's insinuated through verbal discussions and his constantly drawing hands that he's an artist in spirit, and by hobby – but should probably switch to that as a full-fledged career, if he wants to feed his ego and stop catering to this seemingly innate idea he has that he's... well... _useless_."

Yeah, cops would hate me. "But where does he _live?_ What _is_ his real name? When was he born? Does he have a record? Diseases? What about parents? How _many_ siblings? Was he dropped here from space? (Or Heaven?) What about school? Friends? What does he do all day, apart from typing? What's he like in bed?..."

You know, what any cop would ask...

His intelligence, I easily picked up on, was not exactly academic or earned through textbooks – though he often brought up complicated scientific theories on the universe and existence, mathematical anomalies, subjects of that nature, so perhaps he was more self-taught from reading and independent research than what's usually concentrated on in school. But much of his quick thinking and superior comprehension seemed to come from a very logical and reasonable place inside of him – one many people have, but not to the same depth as he did. Of course, he brushed it off thoughtlessly, but how he put it into words and expressed it through his artistic demeanor was unique and... dare I say... downright _brilliant_. He _sounded_ like he could have gone through higher schooling, even with all the "y'know"'s and "like"'s and various stuttering and wild hand movements.

In the third week, I finally stepped out on a dangerous limb – and asked him to show me some of his notebook. After fiddling with the pages with downcast eyes for what felt like an awkwardly silent eternity, paging through it carefully, with such concentrated discretion that I merely thought from the look on his face that he was just trying to figure out a kind way of saying "No bloody way, you fucking sick twist," he _finally_ settled on a page and turned it to me. He did this only a few times, picking out only certain pieces he felt confident enough to show me – and one hand always remained on the book, so I wouldn't flip through of my own accord, as the other remained glued to his mouth for him to gnaw at his fingertips, like awaiting a jail sentence.

The things he showed me from his mind, though, were nothing for him to fret so over; he was easily up there with Justin (Brian's former lover and a fantastic artist) and Lyndsey (a lesbian friend who was an art teacher herself at one time), and that's saying something. A gorgeous pencil sketch of a small girl, about the age of twelve, waiting for a bus and looking rather despondent, angled as if viewed from a window; an image of my back as I sat at the bar (which was drawn, I was startled – but secretly pleased – to discover, only minutes before I'd approached him that fateful Tuesday night, which was why he had been covering his notebook so protectively, I learned, afraid I would think _him_ an oddball for staring at me without my knowledge...); and three separate pieces of writing – not poems, exactly, but words, verses... Lyrics, he informed me as I quickly tried to gobble up the last few phrases of each before he swept the notebook back to hunt for another – lyrics to unwritten songs he'd been working on, using his piano, that were stored in his head. He doesn't know how to write music, so he has to commit it all to memory; thankfully, he has an excellent memory.

Seeing what he saw and reading the thoughts in his head on paper – that was just as intimate to me (and evidently to him as well, with how precious and nervous – or _shy_ – he was about it) as sex. More accurately (and here is where Brian would inevitably start laughing, calling me a pussy – but fuck it), as intimate as making love, really. And the fact that he had been so hesitant to share these things with me, yet didn't protest after only my needing to ask one time, told me that he may have been unnaturally guarded, perhaps even unreasonably _scared_, but he still _wanted_ to share them.

With _me_.

He even prefaced the tiny private "exhibit" with a sheepishly mumbled, "Haven't shown anyone anything I've done in... um... years, I guess – just a few lame paintings John supposedly sold at the gallery near the uni where he works. This here, though – I've never really... well, I _wouldn't_, actually... you know... to anyone else, that is..."

I'm no art expert, but I know a few... and I couldn't help wondering why the fuck he was _typing_ for a living.

But at my dumbfounded questioning of this, he only slapped the notebook shut with a humorous shrug and shoved it away carelessly, like there was no point even addressing it.

"I've thought of it, but I've been assured I'm nothing compared to artists out there who are already in a career doing just this, and they're _still_ starving. So it's best not to waste my time and energy."

It sounded like something he'd been trained to say. Even with the same tone a teenager uses to recite the alphabet.

(Which he can do backwards, in under eight seconds... Yes, I've timed him, much to his embarrassment...)

And then he waved it off and fixed his bright gaze on me, proceeding to quiz me on how the agency set-up was coming along. For some reason, his hearing about a sure thing made him look more content than wondering about a questionable dream he'd buried years before.

It was the first thing about him – his personality, the character within his body – that made me sad enough to want to change it.

I sit with my elbows on the tabletop, my hands held out flat with the palms facing the ceiling. I hunch forward a bit, staring and watching carefully as the closed eyes across from me twitch faintly. I study them carefully, as if I can still see the dark blue of a night's horizon if I look hard enough. He sits as a reflection of me, only he remains blind behind lids of a vaguely darker pale than the rest of his face (save for the slightly fading shadows below) – if I get closer, I wonder vaguely if the long lashes will flutter from my warm, alcohol-tinged breath. His hands hover over mine, opposite so our palms are nearly touching – but not quite. They barely graze each other, but I swear I can still feel the softness of them...

I almost forget how we came to be in this position; I'd been showing him the reflex-slap game I played with friends as a child, because I was stunned that he'd never done it before – but we must have forgotten about it as we downed more than two entire bottles of wine between the two of us (we're now finishing off a third, probably the most we've had so far during these nightly get-togethers).

But it's no wonder we forgot about the game and ended up frozen in these positions, because the last thing I remember him saying is, "_Synesthesia – _they thought I might have had it, but I didn't – I _don't_. I just word things oddly, like when I say my early childhood tasted like felt."

And I'd stuttered, "W-Wha--?" and chuckled a bit, my arm slipping on the table and bumping into his – in a moment of instinctual jerking to keep from toppling over, I groped for the same limb I'd bumped, and accidentally pulled the tight red sleeve down to his elbow.

And the flinch that crossed his features, the hissing inhalation of pain he sucked in sharply, were so extreme and so obvious that my eyes immediately glanced downward and locked onto the multiple strips of light brown on his otherwise milky white forearm – like old bruises. He'd quickly yanked his sleeve back up to his wrist and repositioned himself, but his closed eyes were only proof that I hadn't been meant to see that.

After this unending quiet between us, I attempt a few times to ask what happened. But he reflexively laughs it off, shaking his head. "It's nothing," he assures me, mumbling as if embarrassed. "I'm a terrible klutz, that's all. I've been trying to pretend like I'm so graceful and all, wanting you to think the world of me, of _course_... But truly, I'd lose my head if it weren't attached, trip over my own feet, that sort of thing. I'm just a mess, really. Fell down some steps a few weeks back, that's what they're from. John wanted to take me to hospital, but I hate them – I'm also quite stubborn. Nothing broke, so I'm fine. They're just still a bit... tender. But not broken."

I raise an eyebrow at that, and at my continued silence, his eyes blink open again, the nervous smile faltering slightly.

"_What?"_ he asks, tapping my hands lightly with his own. "Still playing or what? Or is this unexplained stillness just another trick to catch me off-guard?"

I'm stunned, really, and I don't know why, but I keep arguing about it in my head – I never took him for the klutzy type. Not that I'd really _care_ if he _was_, but it just never registered that he was. I've seen him tipsy and on the verge of drunk – not quite as bad as tonight, when I think we're both legitimately smashed, but unsteady nonetheless. But he still managed to swerve expertly around Judy's darting body as she flipped and dipped and dove around patrons to get drinks to their appropriate destinations, nearly running him down as he came back from the bathrooms earlier. He'd been damned lucky to avoid a collision at that point, and the double-back and half-spin he'd done to keep Judy's glasses on the tray had been far from _klutzy_.

_I'm_ a klutz. At worst, maybe an impending threat. But I've seen him at the piano. I've seen him race out of here at top speed after downing multiple shots of straight Tequila and some wine to boot. I've never even seen him stumble.

But the look in his watery eyes – and I'm not sure if they're like that because of the alcohol or if they're tears of pain – tells me he doesn't consider it to be a big deal. So why am I dwelling on it?

Hell... Maybe he had a fight last month and is just embarrassed to tell me, afraid of coming across as juvenile or reckless – ruining the angelic image I have of him (even if he already tells me in _words_, straight out, that he's "no bloody angel").

Whatever the truth is, though I'm knocked out of my silent musing (WA – _oh, wrong story, sorry_) when he frowns at me – then smacks my frozen hands so hard that even Judy hears it from the other end of the bar.

"_OW!_" I yelp, jerking my hands back sharply. I glare at him as I nurse them against my chest. "_That hurt!_"

He folds his arms over himself and narrows his eyes at me, snapping back, "Then wake the fuck up, wanker!"

My phone suddenly breaks into our little "row" and he giggles at me as I fumble around in my jacket pockets for it, griping and muttering sourly under my breath the whole time.

"Fuckin' freakish albino lobster claws you got--"

"Oh, sod off, bloody crybaby. Be a man."

I answer the damned phone almost irritably, and as Nicky whines to me about some computer glitch he can't figure out, I cast Matty disgusted glances while he munches on the strawberries he's brought along with him.

("I haven't eaten yet today and they make the wine taste better too," he'd explained when I gave the small green basket an absurd stare after he produced them from his backpack upon his arrival tonight. Yes, it's always completely normal for people to bring _fruit_ to gay bars... Well, okay... Spot the obvious joke in that and I'll give you a nickel...)

To further irk me, Matty proceeds to spit the seeds out at me whenever I try to get a word in edgewise over the phone.

"Well, you have to make sure the – _HEY!_ - server is still up and running to – _Would you_ – upload... no, _down_load the program again from it onto the net – _CUT IT OUT, YOU BLEEDING HEMORRHOID!_ - network... What? ... Then just open the file from that – _JESUS, THAT'S DISGUSTING!_ - that terminal and just email the whole file to – _EW, THERE'S A FUCKING CHUNK IN THAT! _- to the ones it got erased fro-- _KNOCK IT __**OFF**__, YOU __**CUNT!**__ - _What? No, not you, Nicky, I'm just babysitting a fucking monster at the moment – _HEY! PUT THAT DOWN, YOU DON'T __**CHUG**__ WINE, YOU ALCOHOLIC FREAK!_ - What? No – my non-existent sister's five-year-old with Tourette's..."

Matty instantly cooks up a sinister grin and screeches across the table in a wretched British schoolboy voice, "_Uncle! Stop touching me there! No, I don't like it!_"

At his ensuing crazy cackles, I fumble out of the booth and attempt to get outside where I can actually _hear_ the ranting nut on the other end (feeling an entire strawberry bounce off the back of my head in the process), and when I've stopped chuckling to myself, I finally get a reasonable explanation from him as to why I'm being bothered after hours.

With an annoyed assurance that I'll take care of it, I hang up and stalk back inside, bellowing the warning, "One more seed in my eye and I'll spank you," as I point my phone menacingly at the grinning, drunken imp – who is currently half sitting and half _lying_ lazily in the booth.

Matty chews less-than-attractively on a half-mutilated strawberry and raises his eyebrows in interest. "Oooh, sounds exciting – is that a promise? Can I take me trousers down for it too?"

I slump into my seat with a heavy sigh and give him a positive mopey face.

His grin fades immediately and he straightens up. "What?" he asks, his voice clearer – and clearly disappointed. "You have to go?"

"Yeah," I grumble as I grope for my jacket – coulda sworn I left it – ah, there it is... "Stupid assholes can't monitor some simple computer bugs. It's not even anything major, I just have to make sure some stuff gets through and some other stuff gets kicked out. But I'm too drunk to drive, so I can't go to the office – I'll have to do it from home. But I _do_ have to be near my computer for the next..." I groan and wipe my face with a hand. "..._several_ hours. This is coming out of my time for tomorrow, I swear..."

The impending-doom look dissolves quickly from his cutely brightening features and he shrugs nonchalantly. "Well, you're only over in the rooms 'cross the way, eh?" he points out logically, waving toward my building.

"Yeah, but I mean, I have to, like, _be_ where I can _see_ it--"

"It's not even nine, though--"

"And you're already trashed," I can't help but tease mercilessly, snickering with amusement.

"_You_ can't even drive to your fucking agency!" he shoots back smartly. "Don't you go pointin' fingers here!"

"Oh, fine--"

"Unless you're gonna be putting it to some good use, that is..." he adds with a mischievous glint in his eyes.

"Oh, funny," I deadpan.

He nods, clearly satisfied with himself. "I thought so." Clearing his throat, he goes on seriously, "No, I meant, like, if you don't mind havin' a smelly little alcoholic _nephew_ nippin' at yer ankles, I could, ya know... come with you. I've still got an hour or so, y'know. If it's all right, that is... I don't _have_ to, but... then you could show me your entire opera collection in full, eh? See the full monty, so to speak?" he quips with a cracked chortle.

I stop cold as I realize what he's saying. Maybe it's the alcohol, or maybe it's the shock of someone actually initiating this sort of thing... with _me_... by _choice..._

I stare him down with eyes like saucers – my gaze so heated, I'm surprised he doesn't burst into flames. In fact, he seems so casual about it – like it's a completely normal thing for him to want to come over to... _(gulp)_ my place... willingly...

Somewhere in my head, an alarm goes off:

WARNING! WARNING! YOUR PANTS ARE SHRINKING! TOTALLY FUCKABLE FLIRT WANTS INTO YOUR APARTMENT – AND HE'S SLOSHED ENOUGH TO MAKE JOKES ABOUT BEING ANALLY PROBED – AS A _RULE_ – CAUTION!

"That works for me..."


	5. Chapter 5 A Night To Remember

5 – A Night To Remember

_Ted:_

"Holy Mother of all that is sane... There couldn't have even been this many operas in _existence_, could there!?"

I chuckle from my seat in front of the rented computer in the dining room of my suite and glance over to where Matty is kneeling in front of the glory that is my CD collection – gaping like a kid in Willy Wonka's factory over the enormity of it.

"As you can see," I enlighten him as I set up my connection to the server at work, "there have been plenty of other miserable romantic artists over the centuries."

"Cor, it's enough to slit your wrists over!" he exclaims, shaking his blue head.

"And believe me," I quip as I stand from the desk, "it's not like I haven't tried."

He turns and tilts his head back to peer up at me from his place on the floor as I loom above him. "All right, I relent: I'm officially handing over my Sullen Mope' award to you, oh Devastated Great One, for you far exceed even my lofty expectations of how self-destructive one can reduce oneself to..." He turns back to the CD's in awe, running a bony finger over the spines of the cases. "You've actually listened to every one of these melodramatic masterpieces?"

I nod casually. "I've committed over half of those to memory, actually. Sadly, not all are masterpieces, but I know way too much about even the shitty ones to be considered human."

He leans his head back again to give me a quirked eyebrow. "No wonder you're such a sorry sod."

I bow my own head forward to meet his gaze. "You think this is bad – you should see my porn collection."

He gasps, and his still-drunken, shining dark eyes brighten considerably. "Oooh, have you got it here?"

I flinch in regret. "Eh – sorry – I left most of it at home."

He sticks out his lower lip and pouts at me. "Ted_dyyyyyyy_," he whines, "I wanna see _pooooorn!_"

"Sorry," I sigh absently, focused more on reaching down to plant my h ands on his beanie-covered head. "I figured I'd be too busy _working_ on my _business_ trip to actually find myself entertaining perverts – oh, sorry, I mean _guests_."

He _tsks _and slaps at my shin behind his back. "Bloody useless slag – you're s'posed ta just _know_ these things, Ted – you know, work those psychic powers a' yours..."

I snort at that. "Forgive me, oh whiny one – I had no idea you were into that."

He scoffs and glances up at me furtively before looking elsewhere quickly. "I'm _not_, of course – sex is a filthy, disgusting habit that should only be forced upon muscular, sweaty men trapped in prison together and in need of hormonal relief..."

"Riiiight," I drag out deliberately. "And just whom, exactly, are they going to be taking out this hormonal relief on?"

He gives me a sneaky smile and giggles, then becomes distracted again by the CD's. As he rights his head, I press my fingers down just hard enough to slowly slide the beanie backward; he doesn't protest as I finish removing it, too engrossed in studying the massive selection to make a grab for the loose cap. Inch by inch, a thick mop of coal-black hair emerges from under the heavy cloth, and as I curl my fingers underneath, my knuckles scrape comfortably against his scalp. The hat falls to the floor from my fingers, which I now find caught in the long, soft locks, inadvertently massaging his head as I lazily drag them deeper. He makes a soft sigh of contentment, and I feel my stomach flutter at the sound.

"'At feels nice," he murmurs quietly as I repeat the gesture, running my fingertips through it slowly, marveling at how dark it is. I kneel behind him, then, a mere inch from his neck, studying the strands in drunken fascination.

"Damn... 'S'is natural?" I slur, parting the locks in my hands and peering closely at them.

He lets out another silly giggle and flips through some of the cases in front of him. "Yeah... Used to dye it all sorts a' crazy colors. Even bleached it once. But then I got worried about losing it when a friend I used to know started losing clumps of it at once."

I clear my throat uneasily, reaching up with a self-conscious motion to check my own hairline. Miraculously, it's not too terribly far back – I feel lucky, considering my age. I vaguely recall my one sorry attempt to dye it blond in the fit of a pre-midlife crisis, and chuckle at the memory.

"Wha?" he asks, turning halfway around to look curiously at me over his shoulder as he holds a particular CD loosely in his long fingers.

"Nothin'," I assure him, too stunned by the flattering angle of his face to remember the fleeting humorous thought. Words are coming much more slowly now, and as he studied the CD insert with an expression of deep concentration, I do the same to his immaculate profile.

Suddenly possessed by the need to feel just how soft those cute little lips are, I start to lunge forward, a hand planted firmly on his empty shoulder, near his neck.

Matty unknowingly halts my attempt as he snaps completely around to me with that innocent boyish grin and asks, "Can I hear this one? Looks pretty good..."

I hesitate, not two inches from that tempting mouth, then let out a breath of defeat with a soft smile.

"Sure," I say, taking the case from him. "Like I said, anything you want..."

As I take the CD from him, I come dangerously close to reaching for his face to pull him in for a kiss instead – but the completely oblivious look in his eyes stops me from trying it. He sits easily on the floor with his legs stretched out in front of him, leaning back on his elbows, as I stand to put the CD in. As it starts up and he quickly becomes mesmerized in the sad alto that starts it off, I decide it's safer for me to focus on what I came home for in the first place.

Twenty minutes later, it occurs to me that I've been rude, setting to work without so much as an offer of water.

"You want a drink?" I ask lazily as I lean back in my chair and glance over at him.

He hasn't moved from his spot, though his head is tilted back and his eyes are closed. At my question, he opens them and blinks over at me.

"Mmm... Got any voddy?"

I sputter and get up from the creaky desk chair, shaking my head in awe.

"I guess you're what Judy would call a true Englishman, aren't you? More alcohol?"

He smiles at me blithely as I head toward the kitchen.

"I'm worse – Mum was Irish, actually."

"Ah – double whammy."

"More like triple..."

"Well, I don't have vodka, sorry – how 'bout some more wine?" I call, my head shoved entirely in the fridge.

"Brilliant. You've got taste!"

I scoff at that accusation. "Well, not much by now – I can barely feel my tongue anymore..."

He lets out a silly laugh at the lame joke – _man, he __**must**__ be drunk_ – and I re-emerge from the kitchen with the bottle and two long-stemmed wine glasses to find him on his feet, attention locked with a smiling face on the few porn movies I brought, which he's found at the end of the shelves I keep my CD's on.

"Oh, er, you weren't supposed to see those," I mumble sheepishly, feeling my already warm face grow even hotter.

"He picks one out and turns to me, chuckling menacingly. "I just had an ingenious idea..."

I groan, pointedly holding out an empty glass to him in an attempt at distraction.

_If he even thinks about watching one, I'm done for..._

Unfortunately, he only takes the proffered glass with a casual air and goes on, "Wouldn't it be hilarious to watch one a' these whilst listenin' to, like... Pavarotti or somethin'? Ya get some ugly-faced, hairy-chested, hard-bodied hunk on screen wankin' off, an' Pavarotti's voice seems like it's comin' outta the bloke's mouth when he shoots – I'd roll my bloody arse off at that!"

I clear my throat and snatch the tape away from him, shoving it back in its place with a twist of my lips.

"I think I'd rather not... Besides, pornography isn't for children, my young _nephew_..."

"Oh, c'mon!" he laughs encouragingly. "It'll give ya some crazy dreams at least, I bet--"

I turn back to him with a sigh, not thinking about how close we are until I accidentally brush his arm with my own, and thoughtlessly grumble, "I see anyone wanking off' right now, I might just explode."

He gives me a puzzled look, a hint of concern in his eyes. "You aw'ight, Ted? Seem a bit..."

"What?" I ask anxiously, praying he doesn't glance down at my pants...

Thankfully, his attention remains on my higher end. He shrugs nonchalantly as he eyes me up. "I dunno... Jittery."

I take in a breath, avoiding his searing gaze, and fumble ungraciously with the wine bottle.

"Well, the damn cork's being stubborn--"

"It's a twist-off," he enlightens me, then seems to finally register the object in his hand. "Whoa, gettin' a bit posh with the glasses, eh, mate? I thought I'd just chug it straight from the bottle..."

I finally open the cursed bottle and – _very_ carefully – fill his outstretched glass before doing the same to mine. He's already downing it before I lift mine in the air.

"This is to – _hey!_ Not yet! We gotta have a toast, right?"

He sputters and wipes at his mouth, holding out the newly emptied glass. "Oi, sorry – you do that all the time, then?"

"Well, no," I admit as I fill it again, vaguely wondering with paranoia how much it would take for alcohol poisoning to take effect in a hundred-pound pipsqueak like him – I hope he hasn't overdone it, but thankfully he's still surprisingly steady on his feet. "But ya know... first guest in my place, thought it'd count as a sorta... special occasion..."

"Ah, okay then. So what'll we toast to? The incredibly fortunate fact that the Earth hasn't spun wildly off its axis and crashed head-on into the sun?"

I quirk an eyebrow at the random suggestion, then propose a more reasonable one: "How 'bout, to new friends'?"

"...and the strawberries they tow along!'"

I tap his glass lightly with mine, just when I think he's about to gulp it down – and he nearly does before realizing he'd forgotten the actual "toast" part – and snicker stupidly. "Perfect." I take a meager little sip, then watch with a bemused grin as he proceeds to swig the entire contents of his glass down his slim, pale throat. He smacks his lips, blinking at me – then gets a funny look on his face when he notices my dumb smile.

"What? I got somethin' on me face?" he asks warily.

He goes to wipe at his mouth again, and before I know it, my own hand intercepts his, the smile fading from my lips as I gently pull his fingers closer to myself.

Suddenly stuck in a drunken haze of delirium – both from the alcohol and the sheer inner bliss over having him right here in my rented suite – I gaze at the hand I hold with what can only be construed as mystified adoration. I blindly set my glass on one of the shelves beside us, and really it's lucky to make it there – I'm too engrossed now with running my own fingers slowly, experimentally, over his.

"They're not lobster claws," I remark quietly, remembering my joking insult from earlier. "In fact... they really are... just beautiful..."

After studying the delicate digits solemnly, trying to memorize every line and feel of the soft skin, I lift my head to meet his attention, only to see him staring back at me with wide, questioning eyes – stunned into a puzzled (but compliant, as he makes no attempt to pull away) silence. I hesitate for a moment, a fleeting panic shooting through me as I wonder if I've gone too far...

But before I can formulate a solid regret, his docile, smooth voice reaches my ears – and the emotion I hear in that one syllable, the undisguised pleading in the sound of my name, wipes away any possible doubt that he doesn't want this as desperately as I do...

Staring intensely at his sweetly unbelieving expression, as if he's never been touched before in his life and is suddenly experiencing his first wave of euphoria, I slowly lift his hand to my mouth and slip a fingertip between my lips. He blinks quickly before refocusing his eyes, swallowing hard as I flick my tongue gently against the sensitive flesh. He gasps softly, his own mouth open slightly as if about to ask what exactly I'm doing – but any question he has dies on his lips as I coax another finger in, nibbling and suckling deliberately while my touch lingers teasingly over a slim wrist.

I can't help the overtly sultry glare in my eyes as I watch him, committing every shift in his face, every movement of muscle in his face, his eyes, his lips, as I tenderly and purposefully lick and kiss the exquisite hand I've taken captive. I can hear, even over the soaring wail of a gorgeous tenor behind me, his breathing become ragged and unsteady, hitching ever so slightly as I drag the tip of my tongue over the pad of the middle finger.

I finally withdraw the pale extremities from my lips and draw his hand higher, nuzzling his palm with as much longing as I can show. And I still feel as if I haven't made it clear enough...

I close my eyes, reveling in his timid touch, utterly hypnotized as I feel the slight pressure of his fingertips caressing my cheek ever so slightly: I know if I were to let go this second, his hand would remain – but I just don't _want_ to yet.

Instead, in my uninhibited stupor, I find my mouth running on its own without my consent – saying in a hushed but thick whisper all those things I've been wishing I could tell him for the past several weeks...

"You're so beautiful... You have no idea... how beautiful..."

A soft, abrupt and humorless chuckle sneak out of him – his tone sad as he mumbles, "Nothing could be further from the truth..."

I open my eyes to find his lowered head turning slightly away from me, as if ashamed to be seen – but his hand doesn't stray an inch, nor does it try to retract itself from touching me.

"That's only... at best, an illusion... It's just an image – one only _you_ see..." A slight hesitation, and then a shy, trusting little smile glances over red lips as he turns partially back to me. "But... when I'm with you... You make me feel... like..."

His dark eyes finally rise, though his head remains low, a few strands of ebony tantalizingly obscuring part of his profile – the result is the most alluring, sensuous gaze I've ever seen. "...like I could be... somehow..."

I reach for him with a firm hand, cupping the side of his face and pulling him closer, urging him to look straight at me.

"You are," I assure him forcefully. "You really are... You don't see how people stare at you – you barely see how _I_ can't take my eyes off you..."

He blinks again, bowing a stubbornly shaking head away from me, his normally white cheeks now tinged pink with ambivalence – I can't imagine how hard his heart must be pounding right now, but if it's anything like mine, he must be sure I can hear it.

"I can't look at them," he tells me, his black mane quivering slightly, a few locks catching on long lashes. "I can't... I'm not allowed..."

I tense my hand again, forcing his face upwards to meet my steady focus. When I have his attention, though not his eyes, I whisper calmly, "Then look at me."

After a moment of fearful hesitation, he finally gives in, and I lock him into my penetrating gaze.

"Sometimes... it's almost _painful_ to be near you..." I dare to lean in closer, my mouth barely grazing his jaw. "You make me ache inside... and I love that feeling..."

A trembling breath brushes over my cheek, and his voice sounds caught in his throat. "You say these things so easily... they sound like lies... but I can almost... believe it all..."

"I wouldn't lie to you," I assure him, and he winces, as if slapped in the face – but doesn't explain himself.

All he says, gathering a deep breath inside of him, is, "You make me believe that I _am_..."

"Beautiful," I affirm when he falters.

"...I feel that way around you." He studies me closely, and though his words make sense to my ears, his own countenance is simply baffled – which is an anomaly to me: why would _he_ be so confused over someone being attracted to him so strongly? That's _my_ role!

But then I forget the self-deprecating mantras when I notice that, for some unspoken reason, his eyes shimmer with tears.

"How do you _do_ that to me?" he asks, his voice breaking slightly. "_Why?_"

His questions are every bit as earnest as when he asks me about opera – but in fact, are even moreso.

I take my time answering, because – aside from the clearly backward positions we're in, where I should be asking _him_ why he's currently clinging to me like this – I feel as if it should be obvious by now. But I forget that Matty is far from an assuming person; he may have remarkable depth otherwise, but concerning how _others_ relate to _him_, he goes entirely on what is _told_ to him. No matter how disturbing it is to him, apparently – like my insistence of his superior physical appeal, which he simply can't believe. (And, well, I can see where _I_ wouldn't believe someone... like how he seems to watch me with such awe at this moment, and I have no idea why he's looking at me like that... But he must have some kind of attraction to me – and I'm not stupid enough to question it at this point...)

So I struggle with the dilemma of if I should even speak aloud the automatic reason that logically comes to me when he asks – only because I don't know if he'll reject it outright, sure I'm going overboard, being too dramatic... having delusions...

But seeing those gorgeous orbs of indigo, an unanswered question in them, even a hint of... perhaps... a plea (as if he needs to plead with me for this)... the words are suddenly falling off my tongue: "Because... I love..."

In a split-second of realization and panic – and pure need – I grope for the first thing to stopper my mouth, to keep from blurting out something so inappropriate, so careless to his situation (which was... what again? I can't even recall...) - so brutally honest.

The nearest and first thing, though, just happens to be what's right in front of me: before I even finish, I find myself gripping the back of his head rigidly, kissing him with such readily flowing hunger and passion that I feel him whimper helplessly against my lips as I virtually attempt to devour him whole. The sound of it only causes my fingers to clench in his hair, trying desperately to keep him there, to pull him closer, as if he could melt into me if I held him tightly enough.

But his soft sigh isn't a cry of protest – he simply can't stop himself, it seems, from _not_ stopping _me_. He loses himself just as I do in the kiss, pressing against my body with as much urgency as I grope for him. I taste the sugary bitterness of wine on his lips, then delve deeper for that delicious sweetness of lingering strawberries. His arms around my neck, the empty glass dangling precariously over my shoulder from his nimble fingers, I can barely contain my need for him as I clutch him fiercely, grinding my hips into his as I tighten an arm around his waist. He outright moans into my mouth at the contact, his quickened breaths harsh and heavy when I slide my fingers under his shirt, slip the tips under the hem of his jeans, caressing the threateningly soft flesh of the small of his back I can reach. A shrill little cry works its way out of his throat, and hearing it makes my hips buck forward again, crashing into him fervently. Pressed so firmly against him, I can feel the pulsating warmth of his trapped hard-on on my thigh, and I smile into the kiss, purposefully giving him violent shivers as I drag gentle but ardent fingers up the length of his spine, pulling shirt up a few inches to expose more of that sun-deprived skin.

He breaks the kiss involuntarily when a particularly heavy amount of friction between our overheated bodies makes his head fall back and eyes roll up in blind bliss. I can only respond by dipping my head low and ravishing his slim throat, which makes him grasp the back of my neck more and moan my name deliriously.

Reaching his mouth again, by way of a trail of thick, suckling kisses up the full length of his throat, I pause, panting against his mouth and taking in the arousing sight of his flustered, hopelessly lustful face.

My hands now planted fixedly on his half-exposed, sharply jutting hips, I hiss to him, "I want you... right now..."

Another erotic whine from deep in his throat answers for him that he is currently experiencing the same smothering struggle. Not thinking of anything else at all but his body trying to wrap itself around me and my dire need to feel him beneath me, clawing and crying out and latching onto me, pleading and sweating and riding my painfully throbbing cock, holding me and squeezing me and screaming as he comes all over my belly...

"_Fuck_," he gasps fiercely – but it's not exactly how I've been hoping to hear it...

I blink my eyes open with a start when I feel Matty suddenly withdrawing, almost in a panic. Lowering his head out of reach of my lips, his arms untwist shakily from my neck, staggered panting catching furiously before rushing out and in again.

Slowly, it begins to dawn on me that he's trying to pull away. For a second, his odd squirming seems like a taunting gesture – but then his hands are on my own, gently – even reluctantly – prying my fingers from his hips, and his impassioned moans and heavy breathing degrade into pained half-sobs, shaky hiccups...

"Ma—Matty?" I murmur, dumbfounded when my lips are abruptly left to feel only cool air and the slightly raw sensation of once-deep kisses.

Finally, as he ends up at arm's length from me – literally, he stands with his hands flat on my chest, arms straight out, to keep me that distance away from him – Matty slowly lifts his head, still gasping and hair hanging limply in his face.

A face, I see plain as day when he looks up sorrowfully to meet my questioning gaze, now shamelessly covered in thick tears.

Immediately alarmed, I give a start and make a grab for his outstretched arms.

"Oh God – what is it? Did I hurt you? Did I do something wrong? Did I--"

But he's already shaking his head, more tears spilling over to trail down his once again colorless cheeks.

He sniffles a few times, having trouble looking at me, and then stands straight, removing his hands from my chest to wipe blindly at his wet face.

"I'm sorry," he weeps, as if unable to cover it up even if he wanted to. "I'm so... so sorry, Teddy... I just... I... I can't..."

My heart instantly plummets, feels as if it's leapt straight out of the clutches of the veins and arteries binding it in my chest, and fallen right on the floor below my feet. "Wh-What is it?" I repeat breathlessly. "I-Is there something--"

And my memory serves me up a grand old heaping of stone-cold realization.

My arms fall limply to my sides as I sigh, the weight of the world settling nicely on my shoulders. "Shit... John..."

He stifles a sob when he hears the name, covering his mouth, and nods shakily. "I just... I can't," he repeats, his words muffled by his trembling fingers. He squeezes his eyes closed, trying to get control of himself, and I wince as I realize something else – something beyond my own selfish and needy desires, my own consuming longing for him as well as the jealousy and regret I have over the fact that he _has_ someone already...

Matty is struggling – so fiercely, his hands are clenched into fists. His eyes are full of misery and paranoia, confusion and regret of his own – and he's almost in physical pain grappling with these thoughts and feelings...

Feelings he has for _me_...

My God – in essence, I've actually... made him _cry_ over me! When the fuck has _that_ ever happened before!?

Still, this tiny victory does nothing for the overall loss... the general, heart-wrenching knowledge that Matty...

"Can't do that to him..." he hisses, his face pinched in what can only be described as agony and his eyes pressed shut forcefully. I watch him somberly, keeping that distance between us, trying not to let myself be so overwhelmed with disappointment that I start getting angry with him.

It's just unreasonable – we're drunk, we got caught up in the moment, so engulfed that we both, for a moment (for a terribly _long_, splendidly gorgeous moment), forgot the man even existed...

I sigh again, trying not to sound as agitated as I feel – instantly bashing the thought of begging him to just leave the guy and come away with me... Why would he want to do that? To be with _me?_ I'm nothing to brag about. And he's taken care of, obviously, being with John. He should never want to give that up for the likes of _me_. Besides... I'm only here temporarily – I'd be starting a loving, devoted relationship with someone, after dragging him away from the stability and contentment he's had for so long, and then leaving him high and dry when I go back home after my time here is up...

Damn it all...

"No," I say lowly. "_I'm_ sorry... I shouldn't've... I put you in an awkward position--"

"I wanted you to," he blurts out plainly.

I look at him again to see he's peering back – a devastated expression that matches what I feel inside clearly evident on his still painfully lovely features.

"I did," he goes on, a tremor to his voice. "But I... Fuck... I shouldn't have done it..."

I blink in confusion – _I'd_ kissed _him_, really... I was the one who initiated it...

"I'm sorry," he repeats, setting the glass on the shelf beside him and rubbing his forehead. "I just..."

"No, stop apologizing," I insist. "I started it, I'm the one – you shouldn't have to feel like you're... you know... doing something bad here... Look, we all feel attracted to different people, there's no rule saying we have to only have one person in our lives we _want_... But still, you're in a committed relationship, you've been up front about that, and I didn't pay any attention to that when all I wanted to do was kiss you..."

He flinches, covering his face with his hand.

"Really," I go on. "It was my fault... I know... I know you love John, and I don't want to come between you--"

His head snaps up suddenly, his eyes wide and his face shocked. "_What?_"

I gulp, unsure of where this is going... "I-I said... I don't want to--"

"I _don't!_" he exclaims sharply, looking panicked. He runs his hands through his hair and groans, "I _don't_, I really, really just _don't_... But..." He looks at me again, me in my own world of disarray at this new revelation – and tries to explain, "It's not that I don't want to... To leave him, I mean... You see... Ted... I just... _can't_..."

I squint at him, shaking my head. "What? What do you mean you--"

"I can't do it, Teddy! I'm not... I'm not able to..." He suddenly jerks to life, hugging himself protectively as his tearful eyes dart around wildly. "Forget it... I'm not worth the trouble... I'm just... I'm not..." He cringes and waves at me, his arms flailing. "I should... I should just... Nevermind, forget it – I just need to go..."

As he shakes his head, averting his eyes and stepping around me to get to his fallen hat, he repeats it like a mantra: "I have to go, I have to get home..."

Again, that familiar shot of hysteria bolts through me, especially when I realize his words: he's leaving, he's going away – he's going _home_... to _him_...

When he makes a grab for his backpack, my hand snaps out and latches onto his wrist, trying to stop him.

"Matty, wait, don't--"

To my surprise, he gasps sharply, dropping the bag to the floor and yanking his hand back reflexively, hugging himself tightly again – as if shielding himself from some unknown violent hand about to shake him around for enjoying my touch.

There's a long, awkward silence between us, and when I see how frightened he looks – _frightened?_ - I feel the overwhelming urge to comfort him, to ease his mind, to soothe the tension from his rigid body. No more worrying talk about leaving his lover, no more attempts to manhandle or kiss him – just the two of us again, innocent and friendly, talking about opera and laughing over our own uncool idiocies...

"Matty, it's all right," I assure him gently. "It was a mistake, but we... we stopped before anything else could happen--"

_Goddamnit_, I spit angrily in my head.

He just shakes his head once again, vigorously, making another hasty grab for the bag and hat. He keeps his eyes low as he flings the backpack over his shoulder, yanks the cap over his dark head with twitching limbs.

"I have to go," he stammers. "He'll be home soon... He'll be... He'll know... He always knows..."

I clamp a hand down on his shoulder when he turns for the door – not too hard, but not a gentle tap either – and he startles me again by letting out a cry... as if in pain. He ducks out hurriedly from my hold, and I'm so taken aback by his reaction that I can only stand in my place, watching with wide eyes as he rushes for the door.

Before stepping out into the hall, however, he pauses to turn back to me, giving me that look again, the one that makes me want to... just _hold_ him...

"I wish I could, Teddy," he whispers shakily. "But with him around... there's no way... If I could get away... If I had a choice..."

His words sink into my brain slowly – only confounding me more.

"Ch-Choice?"

"I'm sorry, I'm so very sorry," he repeats, shaking his head ruefully. "You'll never know how sorry I am..." And then he closes the door behind him, leaving me standing in my suite alone, heart still pounding... and a terrible feeling of dread in my gut.

_Shit... Will I... see him again?_

_Matty:_

My feet feel heavy as they pound against the pavement, but they don't make nearly as much noise as I think they should. My pace is erratic and leaves me breathless, but after becoming so entangled in an endless web of jumbled emotions, fear and guilt reigning over most of the others, I can't seem to keep track of it – or of where I'm even going. Doesn't help that I'm one step away from "completely bloody wasted," but at least I can still recognize the streets I walk.

I can't be sure I'll remember this tomorrow, but for now...

It feels like forever when I finally reach our building. Checking my watch, as I just now panic with the realization that I've no idea what time it actually _is_, I swear my heart skips when I see the answer.

Ten fifty-seven.

_Oh... bloody... hell..._

I drag myself up each flight of stairs with a growing sense of negative anticipation in my belly. I feel absolutely _sick_ as I reach our floor, nearly sobbing already with the knowledge of what's bound to be coming...

I stand in front of the door, barely breathing, hoping against hope for the impossible – maybe he's still on the road; maybe he got stuck in traffic; maybe he's had a terrible accident...

_Yes... A terrible, fatal road accident..._

I wince, ashamed of myself for thinking such horrid thoughts...

But then... how true is it? Do I really wish him dead? And if so, what's the harm in only... _wishing_ it?

If life has taught me anything so far, it's that wishes never come true – without a hefty price, mind you.

And in the next instant, the universe proves me correct – no accident I wish for has taken place; only my repeatedly skipping heart leaping into my throat at the voice that suddenly calls through the door in front of me, scaring me nearly out of my skin.

"Plan on coming in any time soon, love? Or did you forget how to turn a handle again?"

_How does he always bloody __**know?**_

I close my eyes and sigh despondently, then take a deep breath, preparing myself for the inevitable.


	6. Chapter 6 A Night To Forget

6 – A Night To Forget

_Matty:_

When I enter, John is sitting in his recliner. No book, no newspaper, no telly, nothing. Just sitting there. Waiting. And now, staring at me accusingly without so much as opening his mouth.

I already feel like I've killed a puppy or something.

"Where were you?" he asks, in that casual voice that means he's not being casual at all.

I try to play like I'm taking it at face value – just a casual question which I will casually answer. I remove my beanie and shove it into my bag as I close the door behind me with my foot, avoiding the glare that bores through me. "Out."

"Oh – my mistake," he says airily, then adds in a clear sneer, "And here I thought you were in the bloody kitchen."

I start to head towards the bedroom, making like I'm going to get ready for bed – and somehow, despite all the alcohol I've consumed tonight, I manage to get halfway there without a stumble. "I was down the pub--"

"No, you weren't."

That catches me off-guard so abruptly that I nearly collide with the wall, spinning around to his deadly stare. I blink at him innocently, trying to seem like I've no idea what he's on about. "I was--"

"I called the pub, Matty," he informs me icily. "Nice bloke called Jim behind the bar said you'd gone off. Before nine. Now, I'd expected that Judy to answer again, but she seemed to have been too busy at that time. So I take it the pub was crowded – so did you prefer to take your business elsewhere?"

I blink slowly, trying to figure out an adequate explanation without giving too much away – even if I don't mention what happened with Ted, the scenario itself would just be too obvious for John to think it was anything else than... well, what's expected...

"Yeah... I left kind of early."

"Still... that's almost two hours of not being at the pub, since you obviously weren't here," he reminds me, standing from the chair and stepping closer to me slowly. "So again, I'll ask." He stops a few feet in front of me and locks me in his steely gaze, that air of condescension simply pulsing around him. He repeats, even more slowly than before, as if speaking to a child, "Where... _were_... you?"

I shrug helplessly, unable to look him in the eye – I hate that expression, that smugness, the gloating awareness he flaunts when he knows he's got something on me... Unfortunately, I can't think of anything brilliant to excuse myself with.

"...Just... out..."

"Who is he?" he hisses, his tone immediately sharpening.

I snap my head up finally, gawking at him stupidly. "Huh? Who?"

"The bloke you left with," he reminds me again. "Who is he, then?"

I shake my head, feigning ignorance. "I...I didn't--" He's so good at this, at giving me more reasons to hate myself for my own stupidity...

"I know you did, Matty. Jim said you'd left with an American bloke. So..." He comes over to me and plants a hand palm-flat on the wall beside my head, leaning in slightly. "Where'd you go off to?"

I bite my lip, looking around quickly, wishing he'd at least take a step back... I feel like I'm being smothered... "Look," I sigh in defeat, "you'll just get the wrong idea--"

"So I already have the right one?" he demands instantly, his fingers sliding up underneath his palm, clenching into a fist beside me.

I cringe and try to explain it as innocuously as the situation had been – at least, at first. Not even thinking about the fact, perhaps forgetting due to my inebriation, that just the mention of this "innocent" situation is enough to rile him up. "He had something to do for work an' he... needed to work on it from..." I realize my mistake too late and hesitate, regretting my bringing it up at all. But now that I've said it, he's going to want the rest of it. "...from... his..."

"Hm?" One tiny sound, and he conveys an entire message: _Go on, Matty, spill it, so I can get this shit started and get what I want already._

I gulp, my head starting to feel light and dizzy. Alcohol? Or dread? "We went to his place--" I mumble miserably.

"For two hours?" he repeats, his voice soft and deceivingly understanding. "I see..." He peers at me coolly, and I fidget under the heat of that stare, glancing into his eyes for a mere second before averting my own again. Then, mockingly, he asks me, "So, how was he, then?"

I make a face of disdain and roll my eyes. "See, I _knew_ you'd get the wrong idea--"

"So what _is_ the right one, Matty?" he inquires smartly, his voice starting to pick up volume and severity. "Tell me. I'd just _love_ to hear it."

I unconsciously rub at my neck, my shoulders hunching inward. "He... He has these CD's--"

"The opera?" he interrupts abruptly. He lifts his chin to gesture over to the stereo, where several of my copied tapes are sitting. "Been wonderin' where you got those from." He smirks and gives me that patronising smirk. "A bit too high-brow for you, don't you think? Are you sure you can even understand any of it?"

Just another stab at my intelligence; nothing new to me, no matter how much it stings every time... "...I...I like it..." I murmur quietly, almost to myself.

"Of course you do," he sneers, obviously insinuating that I don't – which means I only pretend to like it to get into Ted's flat. I'm obviously on the right track, as his next grilling question is, "So... What'd you do at his place, then, eh?"

I shrug again, wishing he'd back up some – I really just want to get changed and go to bed... "Just... listened to some--"

"What operas?"

"...Um..." I pause, furrowing my brow in concentration as I think back to the one I picked from the collection. "...Just some..."

"What were they called?" John demands, in that rushed tone that means he wants me to answer fast – because the longer I take, apparently the more bollocks comes out of my mouth...

I want to kick myself – I can't recall, for the life of me, what the bloody thing was called that I picked... I'm starting to really worry here... "...Um..."

He grins, however unhappily, at my lacking response. "Yeah. I thought so." He finally stands straight again, dropping his hand from the wall and wandering aimlessly near the kitchen doorway. Somehow, I find it easier to breathe when he's further away from me.

But then he has to start talking again. And with every word, the accusations are pinned in a tone of sarcasm and dry ridicule. "Took you to the bloody opera, did he? I'm sure..."

I'm tired of this stupid mind game before it's even fully started. I decide not to play along and simply come out with it plainly... though I still feel it's best not to reveal _all_ that happened... like the "mistake"... (..._which was really bloody lovely..._)

"John, I'm telling you," I assure him, holding my hands out helplessly. "We... I didn't do anything--"

"No?" he asks, an eyebrow cocked as he eyes me up suspiciously.

"No!" I answer immediately. "I told him... I told him 'bout you, an' he's only here a few months, so he's not out for anythin'--"

"But a quick fuck?"

_Shit_. Always finds a way around my logic.

"No," I insist, shaking my head disdainfully. "It... He's not... like that..."

He pauses again, a look coming over him that I've only seen a few times before – a flash of surprise, a second of worry – and then a narrow-eyed glare directly at me for making him feel threatened, speaking well of someone _else_. "And what is he like, then?"

I sigh heavily, wishing he would give this bloody thing up and just fucking get to it already. If he wants a fight, he can have a fight – why does he insist on tearing me down on every other level as well first?

"He's... Cor, I dunno – we just _talk_..."

"Mm-hm..." He comes back over to me, leaning forward and inhaling deeply before pulling back and staring hard at me. "And drink?"

"Well... yeah," I scoff, shrugging. "I mean, we _do_ meet at a _pub_..."

And that's when I recognise how much he's gotten out of me with only a few simple questions – and how much I've let slip, which could very well end up costing me more than I originally thought I'd pay for tonight.

"You do, eh?" he says poignantly. "Ah. I see. So... how long have you been _seeing_ him, then, Matty?"

I let out a weary breath and scratch the back of my head, making it perfectly obvious how tired and out of it I am.

"Look, can we stop with the roasting now? If you're hungry, I'll make you something--"

And on my way to the kitchen, he follows behind me, still harping on this issue with Ted, but not stopping me from trying to move away from him – no matter how much it's failing to work, even as I dart here and there within the kitchen to get dinner set up.

"Really, Matty, I'd like to know – I want to know exactly how long I've been playing the fool in this little set-up here. How long have you been _meeting_ him? Does he know how _I'm_ the one who gives it to you every night--"

"Cor, would you knock it off!?" I snap, purposefully slamming a pan down particularly hard on top of the stove. "You make it sound like I'm having some kind of bloody affair!"

He gives me a wide-eyed, angry face, furious at my outburst, and I shrivel under the heat of his glare.

"Don't you make a noise like that this late," he hisses viciously. "We've got _neighbours_, for Christsake, at least have the decency to think of them instead of your own childish anger for _once_."

I rake a hand through my hair and nod. "I'm sorry..."

"Don't apologise to me – apologise to poor Mrs. Godfrey, always tryin' to get her baby put to sleep at a decent hour, only to be interrupted when _you_ go and make a hollerin' racket!"

_Only because you won't lay the fuck off_, I think morbidly to myself, but I don't dare say it – he's already angry enough as it is... I'd just be asking for it--

Fuck. Maybe I should say it, get this bloody anticipation of the inevitable over with already...

But as I sigh and slump against the stove, John stomps over and snatches the pan away from me, grumbling irritably, "So you're not havin' an affair, eh? Because you two were just _talking_, right?"

"Yes," I groan, regretting having closed my eyes, because when I open them again, the room is starting to spin. I need to get to bed, I need to just sleep this off...

He stands in front of me, holding the pan handle with one hand as the other slaps the bottom of it repeatedly.

"You're too bloody drunk to cook," he informs me, and doesn't sound very bloody happy about it either. "Thank you so _fucking_ much for thinking of me, you selfish little prick."

My head falls limply to the side as I feel the fight leaving me. I already want to cry all over again, the tension and suffocation of just being in the same room with him churning my stomach – no, this isn't just the alcohol, this is more than just the alcohol...

"So... What do you two talk about? Hm? What _fascinating_ subjects do _you_ have to talk about? Did you impress him with your useless knowledge of alien space crafts? Or did you dazzle him with your exceedingly ridiculous theories as to the origins of life?"

I take a deep breath, promising myself not to take the bait – as much as I want this to be done and over with, the fact that he's currently holding a heavy cooking pan does not give me good feelings. "Music," I answer flatly. "Work. Just... things..."

"What work?" he snorts, obviously meaning _my_ work, and how pitiful and useless it is, so why would I have anything to talk about concerning it?

Instead, I jump on a nerve and chew to my heart's content – he wants to be a bitch about it, fine. Whack me with the bloody pan, go ahead... "Well, actually, he's here to set up an ad agency – his employer is a quite successful advertising executive in America, and he's entrusting my friend to get this branch of it up and running, all on his own--"

"I don't care," he snarls viciously – and I know I've pushed too far, bragging about the person he already despises just because of whom they're having their drinks with. "If you're so bloody impressed by the bloke, why don't you just go fucking run away with him?"

_Fuck_. How's he do it? Works me into these stifling little corners like this, where no matter what I say, it'll give him a reason to lash out at me. If I tell him all the things we talk about, it's proof that Ted and I don't mess around when we see each other, therefore it's a platonic friendship, as I've already assured him. But then, somehow, it's proof that I'm more interested in _Ted_ than my own lover if I go on about him like this, whether it's on purpose to get on John's nerves, or just mentioning it in passing...

It's a trap. Always a bloody trap. No matter what I say, he'll manipulate it to make him come off looking like the injured party. And it's always all my fault...

But then... I _have_ bought into it for over a decade. Why stop now?

Bloody hell... How have I managed to let him control me like this? For so long? Even when he's not around, I find myself mentally rejecting things I used to not question so much...

Still, I try to grasp at straws, try to point out his behaviour so that he'll recognise it, perhaps feel badly for it...

I want to blurt out _Because you won't let me_. But that'll just earn a beating far worse than even _I_ deserve... Even if I _do_ sort of deserve it... especially now... now, with all the things I feel for Ted... swimming around in my mind, teasing me as John's the bastard planted right in front of me. All I want to do is get out the fucking door and go back...

But I can't. I can't do it. I can't because I know the consequences. And this is just too bloody disturbing.

"You're being unfair," I sigh finally, "unfair to me and to him – when we're just _friends_--"

"Friends, eh?" he challenges. "You remember the last time, don't you?"

I cringe inwardly; _of course, you bloody idiot – no, what gives you the right to call him an idiot? You're a fucking hopeless wanker, needing him so much despite this bloody nonsense..._

"The last time you took a liking to someone," he starts, and I immediately cut in, not wanting to relive the past in my head.

"We were just _friends_, for Christsake, John, just like this--"

He gives me an incredulous look and points toward the window, gesturing to the darkened city outside of it. "You two infuriating drunks had me running all over London trying to find you--"

And at the blatant shift of blame, perhaps the alcohol lends itself to my proceeding unchecked blow-up: "Ever occur to you that I was trying to run _away_ from you!? That maybe I didn't wanna be _found!?_"

Before I know it, the countertop beside the stove is rushing at me. I stick my forearm out and catch myself before I fall down, the blow on the cheek not even registering in my pain perception yet. But the pan is no longer in his hands – he's set it aside with a noisy crash so he can work me over with his bare hands.

Looming over me, another few steps closer, as I try to collect myself and stand straight again, ignoring the taste of blood from the corner of my mouth, he shrieks furiously at me.

"Did it ever occur to _you_ that I was worried _sick!?_ You and your stupid delusions – happening all over again, thinking you have a right to do whatever you want, go wherever you want, with whomever you please – you never even think of your own safety!"

"Maybe 'cause I think it'd at least be safer out there than in here," I mumble wryly – which earns me another smack, thankfully open-handed this time. But it throws me off-balance still, and I'm reduced to gripping the ledge of the counter and pushing upward, trying to keep on my feet.

"I know you were trying to leave," he assures me. "Oh, it's not like I've forgotten that part – but you were bloody stupid to go off with someone you didn't even know – you _know_ better!"

I roll my eyes, my back to him, and struggle to stay upright. "I was twenty-three years old," I remind him wearily. "It was _years_ ago, I was younger and foolish--"

"And now you're doing it again, four years later, like you don't remember all the trouble I went through for you!"

"What trouble?" I scoff, turning to give him an absurd expression. "All you did was get someone to track me down – only energy _you_ spent was draggin' me back to _this_ shithole--"

Another blow nearly sends me to my knees, but I catch myself on my elbows and shakily remain standing, feeling the tears well up instantly from the punch that catches my nose just enough to cause blood to trickle over my lips. I toss my head back to get the hair out of my face and blow some air out of pursed lips, spraying red droplets on the cabinet above me – getting sick of the taste of it.

"You could have been _killed!_" he scolds me.

I'm really out of line tonight – but who the fuck cares anymore? He's helped ruin my chances with Ted; he's helped make me into this pathetically weak, insecure mess of an idiot; and he's trashed any hopes I've had of ever doing the things I really _love_... so what the fuck is the point? May as well make a pretty abstract living portrait of blasts of violence... I could photograph myself nude and put it on display, and people could gape over all the wondrous colors the human body can produce...

I snap my body around to face him – sending the whole room into a fucking tailspin – and spit out, "I nearly _was_, wasn't I!?"

There's a long, stunned silence – he can't believe I've actually just reminded him of something he himself has bawled over and apologised for time and again...

If there was one time he ever truly regretted what he does to me, it was that time I'd tried to leave him, going off with some older bloke I'd met at a different pub. He'd been straight, but I hadn't cared – he was on a tear after he'd been forced to be clean and sober for two years by his nag of a wife, and all I wanted was to forget all the horrible things my life had to show. So we'd gone off together for four days straight, drinking, popping pills, fucking around with strangers, scarfing mushrooms and blathering on endlessly about ourselves...

The only hint of sexual interest between us happened one night as he sat in a chair and got ridden by some trashy tart, whilst I slept in the bed next to where they were perched; somewhere during their fuck, I'd awakened and caught him staring at me, completely ignoring the writhing whore on him – as if she cared where he looked anyway. He just watched me as I slept, as he got laid. When my eyes opened and I realised I was under surveillance, his gaze only grew more heated – and he'd come whilst giving me a pleading, lustful look, as if conveying that he'd wanted _me_ to get him off instead of the slut on top of him... and I could only explain away the discrepancy by blaming the alcohol.

But the joyride didn't last long – John had gotten someone from the police department to hunt me down, and when they found us...

Well, John was so very loving, so caring, acting the part of the fearful and worried lover so bloody perfectly in front of the police, begging me to know why I'd gone away to do such dangerous, horrible things... And I'd gotten off with a warning, as I hadn't had anything but booze on me at the time. The bloke, though, had had a few naughty pills on him, in addition to the shrooms and some pot. I'd looked (and been) a right mess the first night we'd met, but by then I was absolute _shite_.

So, to make me regret trying to escape, John pulled a trick that I've still never forgiven: making a huge scene so the police would pay attention, he started peeling off my clothes, acting shocked and horrified at all the bruises and evidence of beatings I still had on me – left over from the night before I'd run, having been fed up with _his_ violence.

John openly and loudly accused the bloke I'd gone off with of hurting me – and because John's a college professor, has no record, and was just a politically correct, respectable homosexual, of course the police bought that an alcoholic with a history of violent outbursts at work and cheating on his wife, not to mention the drugs he'd had on him when we'd gotten picked up, had been the one to put me in such a state. I'd tried to protest it, but John started spewing all these psychobabble words, saying I'd become sympathetic to my captor, all this other shite...

I felt terrible. Just bloody awful. And whilst this poor pathetic bloke who'd just wanted to get out and have a good time was going to be prosecuted – by _John_ – for kidnapping, assault and battery, and multiple drug offences, I was undergoing my own version of hell: having dragged me home after the incident, I was tied up and given the beating of my life – or, I should say, my near-death. It mostly just came down to how hard he'd hit my head whilst choking me, but it was still enough to warrant a trip to hospital and a convincing story about my collapsing after being so worn out from my "kidnapping" and falling down a flight of stairs.

How the bastard got away with it, I'll never know. I was in and out of reality for weeks, even after it was determined I would make a full recovery. And when the bloke eventually blurted out that he couldn't recall much of what had happened during that time, it was decided that he'd done it – and it was really too bad that I'd been in hospital and couldn't give any statement at the time...

So my weekend friend was imprisoned, because of John – because of _me_. His wife divorced him and wouldn't let him see his kids again. Even after being released from prison, his life will be forever fucked because of something John didn't want to face up to.

And he'd done it all, I knew, just to fuck with my head and prove that he was the one in control. My punishment for trying to leave. The never-fading threat that he will always come after me, no matter what, and he _will_ take me back "home." And even if he did weep a few times after that and apologise for nearly knocking my life out of me, literally, it's not as if he became frightened by his own actions enough to actually _change_ - he simply took more care not to injure my head...

But the bastard is so confusing... He says I think he's confusing just because I'm stupid, but I'm sure if someone else were brought into this, they would _have_ to admit that at least _some_ of it is... simply unexplainable. Like how he seems to hate and despise me so much, or makes it seem like such a chore to "take care" of me, or "love" me, yet he won't just let me fucking _go_. How he raves to me about what I feel like whilst he fucks me, but then insists no one else could possibly ever want me. How I'm such a pain, an uncontrollable, wild freak with useless, worthless dreams – but then he'll demand a painting so we can get some extra cash...

After over a decade of this shite, I'm about ready to explode... And so I do – right in his face.

Unfortunately, his only response to my stinging memory-jogging is another blow, this time to my gut, doubling me over like a broken puppet. He grabs a clump of hair and jerks my head up, growling into my ear, "Don't you ever say that again... _I_ do this to remind you of the brain you're wasting, being a thoughtless little bitch – you _make_ me do this – how else am I supposed to keep you in line!? You're just like that piece of shit father of yours--"

At this, I cough violently, caught off guard and stuttering badly over the heinous claim.

"I'm nothing like that!" I manage to croak out, still clutching my stomach. "Don't you fucking say th--"

Another slap to the face shuts me up, and then he holds up a hand right in front of me, counting off on his fingers: "_Apathetic. Disloyal. Worthless. Uncaring. Thoughtless. Selfish. Drunken mess. Waste of intelligence_. All your own words, and you _are just_ like him!" He pushes my head to the side, sneering, "You've got a fucking brain, Matyson – why don't you bloody use it?"

The words tumble out before I can stop them, a broken, sobbing answer to a question of rhetoric: "_You won't __**let**__ me!_"

I know I've done it. And he seems to agree.

By the time he's wasted enough energy, I'm slumped on the ground on my knees, leaning over onto the floor and covering my head with my arms, quietly crying from the sharp pain in my ribs. As he stalks around above me, hands clenching and relaxing intermittently, I can only cough and rasp between bleak whimpers and stifled sobs.

"How dare you talk to me like that," he mutters, beyond furious. "I was your _teacher_, you ungrateful little shit – I still _am!_ You'd better commit that to memory, you understand me?"

I swear I have a death wish... "Fucking shame to your title..." My voice leaves me like the moan of a poltergeist, but he hears me well enough.

"What did you say?" he commands fiercely.

I bite down on my cut lower lip, forcing my drunken babbling mouth to shut the fuck up...

"Don't you dare start with that nonsense," he goes on, resentment and disgrace more than evident in his already harsh voice. "You know damn well I only took what was readily and willingly offered. Stupid me, I was foolish enough to believe you were unique, that you were special, different from the rest of those hopeless dolts in your class – I thought you could have been mature enough to handle such an intense relationship at your age with an older man. How bloody naive was I to have faith in you!? _And_ I went further than anyone ever _should_ have for you! You think you're worth all that I do? You think my sacrifices and risking my career and my pride, my reputation, to save you from that hell you called home' was _worth_ it? Just to get put through all that shit you pulled--"

"It was _one_... _fucking... time_, John," I whine, clasping my hands together and wringing them thoroughly. "Christ... One _fucking_ time I left you – and you see where I am now, eh? Locked up on days you feel insecure enough to use that fucking outside latch?" I lift my head to him, no matter how pitiful I may be right now – which, from the look on his face, is pretty bloody pitiful. "You think that's normal? Keepin' me here like this? Locked up like some bloody animal when you're in a bad fucking mood?"

His head bowed to meet my gaze, John cocks his head to the side. "Oh – so you'd run the second you got a chance, would you?"

Without pause, I scoff, "You fucking know I would! Otherwise there'd be no bloody lock in the first place, would there!?"

Hands on his hips, he challenges me, "So why don't you, then, huh? Why not run off with your new _lover?_"

Not even bothering to refute that obvious accusation with a protest, I only wail, "_You always follow! Shit!_ If I'm the one who's supposed to be so bloody unstable, why is it _you_ always came after _me!?_"

"I'm looking out for you!" he exclaims, sounding insulted. "You're my responsibility now! I don't do this for my own health!"

I lay my face sideways on the cool linoleum and cry, "You're keepin' me a bloody _prisoner_, John, that's _all_ you're doing!"

He pauses for a moment, then kneels down beside me, his face softening a bit as the hand in my hair soothes me slightly, stroking some locks back out of my face. His demeanor, however, is only hiding the feelings of betrayal inside of him. His voice is gentle, but trembling with fury, as he recalls for me, "You told me... You _swore_ to me... that you loved me – that if I took you away, you wouldn't leave me--"

"I was a _child_, John," I plead, knowing this argument inside and out, but still going through with it anyway. "I'm _not_ anymore..."

"You've tried _that_ line before too," he confirms, growing snide again. "Just before I had to come rescue your arse from God knows where--"

"_Why!?"_ I shout, pounding a fist on the floor despite the pain it sends shooting up my bruised arm. "Why'd you come for me if I'm such a bloody burden!?"

His fingers clench in my hair and he jerks my head to the side, pulling a muscle in my neck. "You know why! Because I pity you! You're _pitiful_, Matyson, don't you see that!? You know no one else deserves you and all the bollocks you have to offer – that's why I _sacrifice_ myself to take care of you."

I only lower my head from his hold, shaking it slowly and mumbling sadly, new tears springing to my eyes, "Why can't you just, for once, answer that you do it because you love me? Even that would be more valuable to me than saying you're just making sure I keep from makin' an arse of meself... Why don't you ever say it anymore?"

Another long, deafening silence between us; only the buzzing of the refrigerator can be heard, and just below that, my labored breathing as I struggle to ignore the pain that's seeping through despite being bloody pissed.

"Because," he answers finally, his voice deep and low, "I shouldn't have to say it. You _know_--"

"I _don't_," I assure him quickly, an edge to my voice.

Another pause, then, "Is that what you need, then? Just want me to tell you--"

"No – I wanted it before... when you wouldn't... And I'd wanted you to _mean_ it. Not just leave it go with me feelin' like some fuckin' blow-up doll and punchin' bag to use whenever you needed to... I wanted you to _love_ me – before I stopped lovin' _you_."

He chuckles morbidly at that. "What good will that do? You haven't shown me the same..."

"I bloody well do! I'm _always_ showing it, _always_ saying it--"

"Bollocks! For the last three years, you've only ever said it when I force it out of you--"

I jerk my head around to face him again and shout, "_Because I __**don't!**_"

Maybe it's the serious, stern look in my usually calm or frightened eyes, or maybe he's just becoming tired... or maybe, somehow, he really does feel affected by that proclamation. But whatever the reason, John suddenly looks taken aback, genuinely stunned over my words. He blinks several times, glancing around as if forgetting where he is, then turns back to meet my exhausted but cold eyes.

Finally, he lets out a shaky breath. "...Oh... Is... Is that so?" he murmurs, his voice barely audible.

At the severity of his reaction, my stomach churns, and I find myself struggling to push up off the ground, reaching for him, once again as if he's all that my world is made of.

I just wish it were a world I could _love_.

"John... John – please – I'm..." I'm honestly uncertain of what to do or say, really... That's what I want to tell him, too, though I don't. But truly, he suddenly looks so lost and alone, so sad and thrown, that my chest aches a bit, and I feel a twinge of regret... wanting to make it better – even if something else inside me tells me he doesn't deserve it.

"I'm sorry," I breathe, finally resting a hand on his arm. "I-I... I didn't mean it..."

"Of course you did," he cuts in darkly, but his tone isn't menacing or threatening – just somber, and very... _sad. _"you think I don't know this by now?"

Without another word, he stands up, letting my comforting hand fall back to the floor. With a heavy sigh and a haggard demeanor, quite suddenly looking his age, he slouches grumpily and goes to a cabinet above the stove. I watch from the floor as he pulls out a full bottle of what appears to be some kind of wine.

"Here," he says, holding the bottle up for me to see. "I got you this. Thought... since you're always down at that pub, maybe you'd like to have some of it at home. Maybe I was wrong... thinking you'd like to have a drink with _me_ for once..."

I grimace; the guilt is already eating me alive...

With another heavy breath, he pulls out a chair at the table and slumps into it, opening the bottle and taking a swig from it. As I manage to sit up fully and look him in the eye, he peers back with a strange look on his face – a mix between calculating, regretful, and nostalgic.

He reaches down on his other side and nudges the chair beside him out a few inches, then gestures at me to get up, followed by a point to the chair. "Sit."

Slowly, holding my aching ribs with as much care as I can, I stumble to my feet and shuffle over next to him, obeying the simple command.

Minutes tick by, and he takes another couple of hits from the bottle. Still gnawing my lower lip anxiously, I finally gather the courage to speak, though it's only a meek, "John..."

He holds up a hand to silence me, shushing me lightly. "Just... Just please," he says, and the hand comes down to rest on my leg, squeezing affectionately – but not too tightly. "Just sit with me a bit, eh?" he requests, offering the smallest of smiles over his shoulder when he catches my concerned glance. "Just... Do me this favor..."

I nod, but can't help myself – I cover his hand with my own and try to repeat myself. "I'm so--"

He leans back in his seat and lifts his arm over my head, pulling me against his side – almost... protectively... like it _should_ be, I've always thought...

"Shh," he whispers, petting my head lovingly. He plants a kiss on my temple and assures me, "'S okay. I know... The alcohol's started speaking more than you have. You know, you _do_ reek of it," he adds with a mild chuckle.

I hear the playful air to his tone and relax a bit, allowing myself a snicker as well. "Didn't mean to get _this_ stinkin' pissed... Just... Lost track, I guess..."

He nods, his eyes closing as his brow curves downward in either some kind of intangible pain, or deep thought. "Just... Just sit with _me_... please... Like we used to... We never do anymore."

I sigh and rest my head against his shoulder, swallowing hard – glad that the taste of metal has gone away again.

After a long, actually pretty comfortable time, he offers the bottle to me out of habit, but I have to decline.

"I've had enough. I just like... sitting with you like this," I tell him softly.

Even if it's not _entirely_ true. I prefer it to what's usually happening – but I _wish_... _he_ was someone _else..._

As if to punish me for my sinful thoughts, John starts speaking again – and it's only after a few words when I begin to get the feeling that this is all just one more trick of his – one more bloody illusion to keep me under his bloody thumb.

"You know," he starts, "I was thinking today... About your brother..."

"_Step_brother," I correct instinctively.

He laughs inaudibly at that. "Whatever. Anyway... He was in my first class when I started teaching, you know."

I nod. "Mm-hm..."

"I remember him to be... Well, he was a good kid. Not so terribly bright, but still... He was... _good_..."

I scoff openly – no secrets between the two of us what I think of my family. That perverse leech in particular.

When he sees my reaction, he relents, "Well, he _seemed _good, that is. And truly, he _was_ – he was in my class before I knew what he did... But he _looked_ like a good boy, and overall he _was_. In that respect, you two were alike... Probably the only similarity."

"Thank God," I mumble sourly.

He reaches up to pat my head again, fingers stroking my hair. "It was apparent you weren't related by blood, though. Apart from the things he did to you, however, he _was_ a good lad, despite what you think. Stupid git, really – but _good_."

I'm really getting uncomfortable with his praise of that disgusting, sick twist. "...John?" I say in a small voice.

His smile grows wider and his head tilts back, his shoulders shaking slightly as he chuckles. My sense of foreboding increases, especially when he looks directly down at me and narrows his eyes, smile still in place.

"You, on the other hand – you're sneaky. Too quick for your own good. 'S how you always managed to make my skin crawl, even back then – in that good way, that is... But..." His fingers play deftly with the hair at the nape of my neck, and I feel my body tensing, as if bracing itself for something my mind has no clue is coming. "It's just always amazed me how someone could be so smart, so intelligent... yet so damned _daft_ at the same time!"

His other hand reaches over and clamps down on my forearm, not painfully, but strong enough to send warning signals to my muscles. The hand behind my head also ceases its petting, instead coming to a standstill on the back of my neck.

"J-John," I squeak, every nerve ending in my body telling me to pull back _now_. "What're you--"

"You know," he cuts me off, gesturing to the bottle of wine with his chin. "You should have some. I got it for you, after all. You see... When you didn't show by ten-thirty, I decided I needed to figure out a way to get across to you how important this schedule is – which I thought you were aware of, after all these years..."

I close my eyes, gulping, and I curse myself for falling for that bloody "sit with me" bollocks... What a load of...

"_Oh Jesus, please God, just don't..._"

He either doesn't hear me or chooses to be deaf. He rambles on in a tone that's too cheery and casual to be safe, "Well, when you were more than reasonably late, I thought up a lovely little lesson for you – so I popped down the liquor store a few blocks away--"

I force my eyes open a crack to appeal to him, "But I've... I've said, I've had enough--"

He turns his head down to give me that evil, smug grin of his. It makes my chest seize and my stomach turn. My head already aches...

"No, I don't think you have," he answers, and lifts his hand from my arm to set the bottle down in front of me. He gestures to it once, ordering coldly, "Drink."

I know this is a futile attempt, but I try anyway, facing forward but staring down nervously to where his hand returns to my arm. "John... I don't... want to--"

"C'mon," he urges, letting go again to swipe the bottle up, eagerly pushing it into my face, pressing it to my mouth. I gasp at the contact with my sore lip, but he just continues, persisting, "Have it – c'mon, s'aw'right, love... You can have it..." And then his smile gradually fades when he realises I'm watching him with those fearful, knowing eyes. The ones that confess bluntly that I know he's up to something I won't like.

Sure enough, the warmth there vanishes instantly, and the fierce glare penetrates me once again.

"Drink it," he growls, shoving the bottle against my lips harshly. "You love the bloody stuff so much--"

I try to turn away, try to push myself back from him, but his hold on my neck is tight and sore. "John, stop it--"

"No – c'mon, Matty, drink up--"

I push the bottle away another time, pleading weakly, "Stop--"

And hand becomes a claw on my neck, yanking me up with him as he jumps to his feet, whirling me around and slamming me down on the table before I can get a decent enough gasp of air. I just open my mouth to do so, by reflex, when a mixture of sensations overwhelms me and I sputter and cough convulsively – the sharp, blinding blow of the heavy glass bottle smashing into my lips, cutting the insides on my teeth; the iron hand wrenching my head back to keep it still; the rushing flow of warm, fizzy liquid spilling onto my face, filling my mouth and nose, choking me with its pungent scent and taste, stinging my eyes and practically drowning me. I struggle to grope for his arm, begging for him to relent with only my panicked tugs and my strangled, garbled wails, a grotesque sound even to my own ears.

"I said _drink it!_" he shouts, shoving the bottle neck deep into my mouth – sending gulps of it down my throat, and some down my windpipe.

I'm sure I'm going to suffocate like this, wine pouring out of every opening of my body, covered in the sticky mess. I sputter and kick and try desperately to squirm out of his hold, but John just slams my head back against the table to shock me into submission. I'm spitting the shit out everywhere, barely breathing, already too drunk to keep track of what the fuck is going on... and he's forcing more into me, brutally so.

He pulls the bottle back at one point, yanking me up slightly off the table to let me cough and vomit some of it back out, but, as violently as I'm shaking, I still try to fight against him, going for his eyes with my red-stained fingers.

He easily slaps them away and positions me in such a way that I can't get out from under his hold, but he can manage to hold the bottle with one hand in my mouth – upside-down, with only my own tongue acting as some kind of stopper to control the flow. But he won't let up at all, pulling at my hair and digging a knee into my stomach, which causes my back to scrape against the coarse edge of the table, every time I try to pause to catch my breath. He hisses at me to finish it, that I've certainly taken advantage of his benevolence in letting me go out and have drinks, but now that I've overstepped my bounds, I'm paying the price.

"You like to drink so much, eh? You like this? Then let's give you all you want."

And the few times I manage to successfully twist away, wasting a few gulps as they pour over my neck or shoulder instead, he takes the chance to knock the wind out of me with his knee – making it that much harder when the bottle goes in again.

Finally, the thing is finished, the majority of the contents in my swirling, aching belly. John yanks me off the table and shoves me to the floor, making cracks about a disgusting drunken waste. I groan blindly into the linoleum, and at the sound of me still being conscious, a bright whiteness engulfs me momentarily, making me gasp though I've no idea what's just happened – until I come to only seconds later to find half of the broken bottle lying beside my head on the floor, the rest of the shards and glass sprinkled over my upper half. I know there must be a knot in my head, right above my ear – dangerously close to my temple. I reach up to feel and wince when I feel a piece of glass digging into my finger, and with double vision, I work at getting it out. But the red seeping into my eye, blocking my vision, is getting annoying, and then I remember what I'd been trying to feel in the first place. Gingerly grazing the wound I can't see, I discover that the warm liquid that had leaked or been sputtered out onto my neck and face is now replaced with a thicker, darker substance. I look at my blood-soaked hand when I pull away from the cut, moaning in anguish as the headache starts tearing through my brain...

"Had enough?" rings the taunting voice above me, and I can't even bring myself to care anymore.

"...Huh... uhhh... Fuck..." I grumble, still staring at my own blood.

"What's wrong, love? Feel ill, do we?"

"...Uhhh..."

He's right beside me now, on his knees with an arm around my aching ribs, trying to pull me up off the ground as I gasp and start with every motion.

"Not quite as nice as before, is it?" he quips, dragging me to my feet mercilessly before throwing me back onto the table again, this time face-down.

"How disgusting," he huffs, taking in the awful sight of me with disgrace. "Pathetic drunken cunt – how bad was it, Matty? Eh?" He leans forward, his back pressing against mine, drawing more moans of anguish from my lips before I can silence them. "How 'bout your new side item?" he whispers into my ear, the one _not_ covered in blood, mind you. "He that obnoxiously pissed too? How out of it were you, exactly?"

I try to fit together what I'm hearing with what I'm feeling and (vaguely) seeing. My head turned to the side on the tabletop, I can only see his sneering, terrible face in my peripheral vision. I'm just barely halfway on the table, bent right at the hips to be forced down flat on my chest. I can barely breathe, still spluttering a bit from the wine, but mostly from the weight on top of me... and it faintly starts to sink in when I realise that he's putting an awful _lot_ of weight on my upper half, as if trying to balance himself.

I should panic – after all this, the bloody bastard wants more? But I don't – I simply _can't_; my brain won't let me because it's too damn tired. Too soaked in alcohol and fear, too uncaring anymore to give a shit about what else my body can handle.

I can feel the tugging on my jeans, and I react reflexively despite my mind's conscious decision to give up – but at my muffled cry and meek attempt to stop him, he slashes at my back with... something... something excruciatingly sharp... broken glass? I feel the white-hot searing burns over my skin and yelp, convulsing with every slash, surely just making it more thrilling for him.

When he feels I've accepted my fate, he tosses the sharp object away and returns to my jeans, unzipping them and plunging a hand inside as my jelly legs only hang limply under him.

"Let's just check and see how much you really like this bloke, then, shall we?" With a brutal grope, my voice comes out harshly, tearing at my already sensitised throat. A grunt of disapproval from him, his hand yanking out of my boxers, wiping the slightly damp residue leftover from the make-out session with Ted against my bleeding face.

"Someone's been feeling frisky tonight, eh?" he alleges disarmingly. "Well, how much did you give him, eh?" Working at the jeans as he's quizzing me. "Did you let him touch you? Get you off? Eh? You cunting little _slut_--"

The beating that follows is more like a patchwork quilt for me – flashes of images in my mind, but I can't piece it all together. Too drunk, too beaten already, too ill and injured. But of course, I recall with perfect clarity, perhaps because he drags my head back at an aching angle to make sure I'm paying attention, his reminder in my ear as he grips my cock in a brutal fist.

"_This_ is _mine_, you hear me?" he growls. "No one else's – not his, not yours – _MINE_. You belong to _me_. Don't you _ever_ fucking forget that. You ungrateful little _WHORE_."

I've lost the ability to respond.

I blink a few times, and somehow, I've gotten to the bed – I don't think I'm clothed... I feel chilled... And I try to drag my eyes over to where coarse material is being draped and rubbed over my wrists – I see a vague figure in front of me, and with a tug of his arm, my hands are pulled up to the headboard. Bloody ropes again... I hate the bloody fucking ropes... my arms already ache...

I whimper pathetically as I feel the weight shifting from next to my waist to the other side of me – crawling behind me now. I'm stuck between whether I want to scream and kick him away, or just let myself pass into a sweet oblivion, let him do whatever he wants to this decrepit body.

I'm not given any time to consider – another scream rips from me as he enters me – dry, deep and unforgiving – and the tension in every one of my muscles makes my eyes roll back and my legs curl up. Better for him, I realise too late, and then he's pounding into me, grunting a sick pleasure into the back of my head as I lay here helplessly and... just cry. There's nothing else to do anymore but cry – begging won't help, yelling won't help, threats mean nothing...

Fucking bloody night this turned out to be... I bury my face in the pillow as best as I can and just wish I didn't have the stubborn endurance I do – I would give anything to just pass out right now, this very second, just please, someone, make this bloody fucked-up night _end_ already, _please_, just make it _stop_--

_Ted:_

I suppose I'm being too much of an optimist. I suppose I'm relying on a dream I know can't possibly be real. I suppose all the things in my life and all the experiences I've had only serve to prove that I'm not supposed to find someone to be my soulmate. My other half. My love. Yet I suppose I'm either too desperate for general idea, or genuinely, madly in love. Because even after the uncomfortable night in my suite, which sent Matty flying out the door in tears, mumbling words I don't know if I'll ever piece together, I find myself back in the booth, staring at the empty space across from me and turning my head every time the door opens.

Judy thinks I'm being stupid – she doesn't say it, but I can tell that's what she's thinking. Stupid for falling for a guy who's already in a sturdy relationship; a guy who has more important things to do with his time than get drunk with a pitiful old fool like me; a guy who doesn't even realize it, but who is merely allowing me into his lovely secret world as a privilege whenever I get to look at him.

Is my time in that world over now? I wonder as I sigh and toast to the empty space in front of me. "_To the miracle of the Earth remaining on its axis,"_ I mumble, "_and the strawberries that make it so_..." And I down the rest of the wine in my glass in one gulp.

It's ridiculous to stay until fucking _midnight_, the very night after that equally gorgeous and upsetting scene. But I do. Just in case.

I resign myself to the fact that he's not coming tonight, and Judy gives me a sympathetic look as I wave goodbye.

I can't stop myself – I am utterly hopeless; pointless though it may be, I know I'll be back tomorrow.


	7. Chapter 7 Time Of Your Life

A/N: It's been ages since I updated this one. Over the years I see at least some people perused it. Maybe some of these (or others) would like an update or the continuation of the story – as it's actually finished. So I'll just tack these on as I like….

Warning: Yes, it gets violent and some may feel queasy. And it might get too soppy for others. But if you've read any of it thus far, you shouldn't be surprised, eh?

And I don't own any of these characters or whatever they're affiliated with. Ricky's completely made up, though, so I guess I can say I claim him.

7 - Time Of Your Life

_Ted:_

When Monday arrives, I'm so hopeless and scattered about the situation with Matty that Ricky catches three of my mistakes before anything can result from them, so I'm apologizing and offering to do this or that for him purely out of gratitude. He assures me I don't need to do anything – we all have our off days, he says – but he's noticed I've been even more out of sorts than usual lately. (How he can tell is beyond me, but I don't feel in the playful mood to question him.) The previous week, save for Monday, had been an absolute nightmare – as if he needs to tell me that.

"So give it up, mate – what's eating at you?"

I try to tell him, but I can't put it so simply as, "I'm in love with someone, which I told myself wouldn't happen to me again, especially not on this trip, and now that I've practically – no, _totally_ – humiliated myself by showing him just how much I want him, I think I've scared him off."

It sounds so easy to put into words – but it isn't. Because it doesn't explain all of it, or how exactly it's been toying with every piece of my functional brain since I've not been able to look at him since that night.

Ricky offers to take me out after work, but I decline – I can't bear to be around anyone right now. Not even nice little Ricky.

I barely make it through the rest of the day. Dash outta there as soon as I can. I need to get my head sorted out. Need to find a way to distract myself.

Unfortunately, being "home," alone, with only my opera and wine to keep me company – as they did all weekend – only makes me feel stir-crazy and frustrated.

Before I know it, I'm breaking the oath I made to myself when I left the bar on Friday night – I'm marching straight across the street and end up in front of Judy's curious face, as she was sure as well that I wouldn't be setting foot in here for a while after four consecutive days of drinking alone.

I try not to look, but my eyes betray me – and my heart sinks with a miserable little grumble of, "I told you so," when I see no one occupying "our" booth.

I consider doing myself a favor by not even sitting in that comfortable seat, therefore not having to spend another lonely night staring across at the empty space that _should_ be holding one with a sweetly shy, secretly mischievous smile. Should just give up hope and resign myself to a solitary stool, as I had the first night I came here.

"Oi," Judy's familiar voice reaches me across regions of time and space. "Surprised to see you. Thought you'd given up."

I raise my attention from the empty booth to see her toweling out a glass and giving me a wondering stare.

"Yeah," I utter, barely audible over the music from the other room. "I tried to... but..."

She shrugs it off, overturning the glass on top of the bar. "Usual, then, love?"

I sigh heavily, then shake my head. "Make it heavier," I request, not even keeping track of my mouth.

She smiles, as if catching my drift before I know what my own brain is thinking.

"Straight JD, then?"

I wince at the thought.

"That'll be it, then," she confirms with a nod, and I make a move towards a stool--

But a moment later, I find myself in the booth, unaware as to how I've arrived there. Judy serves me without questioning about the placement of my ass, though I'm about to ask _her_ how it's ended up here, as if she would know better than my own subconscious tendencies.

But I don't ask, and neither does she each time I gesture for another.

I've got no inkling as to just how strongly this habit's been ingrained into me – nor of the time. But it must not be as late as I think, or as late as the whiskey makes me feel, for when the door to the bar opens – this one amongst numerous instances in the past countless hours – I simply _know_.

My heart leaps and my insides flutter regardless of the amount of alcohol I've consumed. My eyes closed and my head bowed over the multiple empty glasses (and a half-empty one right under my nose), I don't see the shadow that eases itself hesitantly over the table. But I _know_.

I let out a long breath and lift my head slightly.

"Funny," I murmur, slurring only faintly. "Figured I'd never see you _here_ of all places again."

There must be a vague smile to his lips, but I can tell it's not the timid, eagerly hopeful one from before. It's not even the sly, crooked one that signals he's about to pull a childish prank. From about two feet away, I can _feel_ that this one is small, sad – regretful.

"Did you? I don't blame you. For not trusting me no more." A brief pause, then, "You can at least tell yourself that you never said it, anyway. It'll save you some much-needed pride."

"I tried to, though," I remind him in a hiss, wincing against the mental anguish of the memory. "Your accusing look kept me from finishing. As if I didn't have a right to."

"So instead, you kissed me." Not said with indignation or attitude – just stating fact. If anything, his tone suggests a hint of pleasant surprise. "So you wouldn't have to face up to it later. A kiss can be excused by hormones, the heat of the moment – but those words... They mean everything when people like you or I say them. And mean them."

I sigh again, and after a moment of internal arguing, I relent and open my bleary eyes, gazing up at his shadowed face.

"But it doesn't matter if I said it or not. I _do_. And you know damn well I do."

He averts his eyes from mine, the ghost of his smile vanishing, and asks, "Would it trouble you too much if I sit with you?"

Before I can blurt out my heartfelt insistence that I'd love nothing more, I catch myself and only turn my face away, unable to keep my emotions in check if I keep looking at him.

"Do what you like," I respond carelessly.

"What I like?" He gives a short, bitter laugh. "What I'd _like_ wouldn't be legal to _do_ in a place such as this... And besides, you'd probably push me away right now."

_Bull_, I think morosely – but I don't dare say it. And another small part of myself actually buys his claim, and faints dead away at the idea that _he'd_ want to do _that_ to _me_.

I hear him shuffle into the seat across from me, and after what seems like an eternity, I let out a shaky breath and give in, turning to look into his captivating eyes, readying myself for the inevitable downfall of my callous, stone walls...

But I stop dead cold when I do – not because of my own hurt feelings, though not because of some overwhelming urge to pounce on him either.

The wind is almost literally knocked out of me when I finally take him in: dangerously exhausted, gaunt face; deep shadows not only under, but serving _as_ hollowed eyes; a ghastly black and blue bruise poorly covered over with some kind of make-up just a shade or two darker than his ghostly white pallor; and a frighteningly ugly, healing gash on the side of his forehead.

I gulp sharply, catching my breath. It doesn't even enter my mind that this could be some ploy of his to gain sympathy in order to lessen my anger over the previous week – the fact is that the person I love is sitting in front of me, obviously injured, and it sends waves of panic through me to see it.

"Wh – What happened?" I ask, completely forgetting myself and my own emotional injuries as I'm shown, quite plainly – as if he'd tried to make it look less serious with the make-up but then abandoned it when he realized it was pointless – his own physical ones.

He blinks slowly, a flush crawling up his neck to his cheeks, unable to return my quizzical gawk for a moment. "It's stupid," he mumbles. "I just--"

An absurd thought comes to me, and I feel myself tremble as I interrupt him, "Did he--"

But I'm cut off abruptly as he sneaks in sharply, "What? I said I'm a klutz, y'wanna take the piss now?"

Maybe it's the alcohol, or maybe it's the paranoia in my own head – for whatever reason, his slicing into my thoughts throws me enough that I almost lose track of what those thoughts are.

Just seeing him, though, resets my brain and I gesture to his face, a hole opening up inside me as I wonder madly at these new, obvious marks on him. "Did he... do that...?"

He shakes his head quickly, swallowing hard. "Forget it, Teddy, like I said, I'm just stupid – but that's not important. I knew you'd freak if you saw it, I tried to figure out a way to cover it, but it wouldn't work – but it doesn't matter. What _is_ important--"

"How did you get hurt?" I ask directly, my mind working slowly from the whiskey, only processing the fact that his wounds look painful.

He hesitates for a moment, then shakes it off quickly. "I'm an idiot, okay, just clumsy. That's not what I want to talk about, though. I came here because--"

"You won't tell me?" I demand, suddenly feeling betrayed all over again. "If you want me to listen to anything you have to say, why don't you start off by telling me how you--"

"Because it's not your problem," he snaps, his voice taking on a tone I've never heard from him before: sharp, agitated, even close to angry. His glare shuts me up as he continues thinly, "It's not yours or anyone else's, it's mine and _only_ mine. I got myself into it, no one else needs to be a part of it. I won't drag anyone else down with _my_ past mistakes, so just let it... the fuck... _go_."

I pause in my demands, shaken by this side of him I've never seen – even, I hate to admit, intimidated by it. I almost feel like this "kid," surely at_ least_ a dozen or so years my junior, could very well make me sit in a corner with a dunce cap on if he said so.

I eye him up cautiously, and at my obviously wary look, he sighs, the stern edge dulling to a rueful air.

"Look..." He cringes and shakes his head. "I hate bein' like that, but if people would just _listen_ to me..."

I blink at him, utterly confounded... I wish I knew what he was trying to _say_...

He holds his head on a fist, tilted sideways, and confesses in defeat, "You have no reason to believe anything I say, especially now... when I feel too stupid about my unfortunate violent meetings with hard furniture to tell you that I've just banged me head too carelessly in a drunken stupor or somethin'..." He chuckles morbidly at the admission, so ashamed, it seems, over his own "accident-prone" nature that he refuses to look at me, only staring pitifully at the empty glasses between us.

But then he coughs slightly, growing serious again, and goes on, "But I'm telling you, concerning what happened last week... This is the truth: I didn't run out, and I didn't blow you off the following nights on purpose. If I'd had my druthers, I would have come every time after that. I would have probably stayed longer that night as well. Maybe even..." He glances into my watchful eyes, smothering a bashful smirk, and quickly diverts his attention again. "Maybe even _all_ night."

I can't help but feel my stomach twist – in quite a delightful way, as opposed to how the whiskey's been treating it. I sit up a few inches straighter and lean forward a bit, trying to play it off like he's not just made up for the previous awful week with just one hint.

"But I just... _couldn't_," he continues, and his demeanor suddenly changes again, as it shifted so swiftly from apologetic to defensive and stern, then to embarrassed and onto coy. Now, he seems and sounds downright vulnerable and dejected – he must really be in turmoil, whatever situation he's stuck in, being so unable to find a state of mind that's comfortable. Even with me, whom he's seemed level and stable with whenever we've been around each other for extended periods of time.

"I don't expect you to understand," he says quietly to the table. "Or to give me the benefit of the doubt. You don't even have to forgive me, though I _am_... so sorry to cause you so much confusion... I never meant to hurt you. But from your side, from your viewpoint, I know you have every right to _feel_ hurt. And _I_ did that. _I'm_ the one who... in your eyes... completely avoided you for that long, after you'd basically poured your feelings out to me - after you'd already told me you didn't want to get into that situation again. Like I'd..."

"Cut out my heart," I finish softly for him.

The look he gives me when I say this, then dare to meet his gaze again, does it to me all over again – the ache in the chest, the regret over seeing those unshed tears in his eyes, like he wishes he could take back every negative aspect of all our times together. Like he would do anything he could to make the pain stop for me.

And seeing that in his face... nearly does me in automatically. But I check myself before I blurt out that he has nothing to apologize for – thereby excusing everything that's repeatedly made me want to give up on this feeling for good.

As much as I long to accept his apology and offer anymore of my own comfort in return for how badly he feels over treating me so thoughtlessly, my own past wounds from older, malformed "relationships" demand attention.

"So... can I ask," I hazard, teetering the line between letting him win completely and coming off like I'm mocking his sincere regret, "what happened there? Are _you _the one who's confused? Do you... Do you feel trapped in a loveless relationship, but don't have the guts to leave, so you're just keeping me hanging on for the thrill of someone actually being so... obsessed?"

He looks hurt, but his tone isn't angry: "No. Like I said – I _don't_ love him. He knows I don't, but... he won't let go, so, yes... I _do_ feel trapped. But... I'm in a bad situation, Teddy. I've nowhere to go, I can't even get to my own money, and he keeps regular tabs on me... He didn't even want me coming back here, but... I lied to him, plain and simple. I actually _lied_ to him – not just covering up or glossing over the truth, not just failing to inform him... I told him, word for word, that I was going somewhere else instead of this particular pub. I'm sure he doesn't believe me anyway – but I guess he just figures it's bound to happen eventually, so he didn't question it. So as long as he lets me have that bit of freedom, he can still claim that he isn't..."

When he trails off, as if unsure of how to put it, I shake my own head, wondering why he's struggling so much with something this easily recognizable: "Forcing you to stay."

He bites his lip – which, I note absently, also looks a bit raw – and lets his eyes dart around aimlessly as he murmurs, "I suppose... Not quite, but..." He lets the search for his specific wording go and turns back to me. "But no, I'm not... attracted to you just for how you treat me, how you feel about _me_. It's just that I..."

I let out another sigh of despair, irritated by how he's weaving this web. "_Can't_ leave him," I blurt out, repeating his own words from that night. "It's okay..." I decide, letting the helplessness enter my voice. "I understand. I wouldn't be able to keep you comfortable anyway – since I'm not gonna be here indefinitely."

I don't fail to notice the acute shock on his face – he's startled, as if he'd completely forgotten about this fact.

I can't help it – the genuine panic in his eyes sparks a feeling of triumph inside me, like that's all the proof I need to know he _isn't_ the lying, conniving, manipulative user my hurt feelings had begun to conjure up.

I'm relieved, to be honest – but I can't be so totally open about that yet... I can't let him know that he could very well be fucking me around behind my back and I wouldn't care, so long as he graced me with his presence every night.

"..R-Right," he stammers, reality setting in at my reminder.

_Christ..._ My heart's fucking breaking just seeing that mountain come crumbling down inside him...

"But no... No," he whispers, his fidgeting fingers working overtime now as he tugs mindlessly at the sleeves covering his wrists. "I'm not confused over how I feel about you at all... I just... can't explain it to _him_..."

I nod once, trying to contain myself. "He's convincing enough to keep you with him."

He shrugs half-heartedly, one hand delving into the shirt sleeve to rub shakily at his wrist. "...So to speak..."

"Yeah," I sigh, shifting in the booth to rest my cheek on a fist. "So he must've kept you busy every night last week. Keep you from coming out... Yeah?"

Furrowing his brow, he lowers his eyes to his covered hands, and when he speaks, his voice is so soft that I have to lean in to hear him.

"...I got... tied up... every night. Most of the day too... just... every day..."

I look at the ceiling, wondering when exactly it had learned to dance like that... "What'd he have you doing?"

A faint shake of the head and shrug from the corner of my eye answers, but he says anyway, "...Nothin'... He just... kept me... there..."

I squeeze my eyes shut, starting to feel a bit too dizzy to pay attention anymore. Only want to look at something that will distract me from the sickness in my stomach - I still can't tell if it's from being drunk or hearing about his lasting commitment to some bastard he doesn't have feelings for anymore...

But then, as I'm about to drunkenly declare that this is pointless, that I'm tired of being so in love with someone who _says_ such pretty things back to me, but can't readily _show_ it, that I may just feel better about his claims if he could just _prove_ it to me, without having to run back and ask _John_ if he's _allowed_...

I open my eyes to look at the sweet, pretty face – and my stomach lurches. The bruised, tortured countenance looking back at me is twisted in pain, a pain worse than whatever he must've felt when getting that cut. Tears on his cheeks just as they were last week, when he forced himself – _forced_ himself, I recall clearly – to leave my arms, as if struggling against a physical entity binding us together.

And in the face of that undeniably true guilt and pathos, I can't possibly turn a cold shoulder to him. While I still don't understand this unrelenting attachment he has to John, a man who obviously has major control issues and problems with letting go, I know the only thing I can count on is how I feel about Matty: that strong, sensual, inescapable longing just to be near enough to touch him, even if I'm not actually doing so, is what causes the delightful twinges in my chest and fluttering energy in my mind. I feel... _alive_ with him.

And if I only get to feel it a few hours a night, five nights a week, then I'll take it. No matter what else gets dished out with it – overprotective lover and all. I'll abide by his rules, I'll do whatever I have to. As long as I can have this time with him.

Besides... I'm only here a few more months... May as well enjoy it while I can, right?

Letting out the breath of a lifetime, I give into my desire to enjoy what time we _do_ have together, and blurt out, "To be honest, I'm actually... thrilled to see you again. No matter what's already happened or why you can't... get away from him for good. Call it my weakness... I'm just happy you want to spend your free time with me – and it's stupid of me to tell you that, when you could take advantage so easily--"

"I wouldn't," he cuts in, his voice trembling and strained. "Truly, Ted – I would never... Not of you... When I know it's genuine..."

"But I'm telling you, flat-out: you _could_. And I'd still come here hoping to see you every night. I guess, in a way, it's like how he's got _you_ latched onto him so tightly..."

He cringes, shaking his head. "No... It's quite different..."

I tilt my head to the side, narrowing my eyes at him. "How so?"

"Because it's..." He sniffs and wipes at his unbruised cheek, shrugging. "With you and I... It's mutual. You may feel trapped by how you feel about me – but my own entrapment... is a bit... different..."

I nod at this, agreeing, as he's already admitted that even _John_ is aware that he's not in love with him anymore. But the trap – not being able to control yourself when you're faced with all you want...

"Still..." I attempt to protest.

And then he speaks to me, so pleadingly, openly – the exact words I've been thinking all along about him: "I just want to _know_ you, Teddy. Even if you're too hurt to still let me near... From a distance, then... As long as it's... close enough to feel your presence... Just to know you again is enough for me."

I cover my eyes with a hand, as I immediately feel them well once he's laid it all out for me, as I have for him. Hesitantly, as if fearing an answer I can't bear to face, I ask him, "Do I still... make you feel... beautiful?"

An eternity passes, and I almost gasp when I hear him whisper, "Look at me."

I drop my hand, obeying him dutifully – but once our eyes lock, it's not obedience at all that keeps me gazing into those gorgeous "windows" to his soul; a soul I'm sure I've been meant to know, if the feeling I get when I see it is anything to go by.

He smiles finally – a real, familiar Matty smile, the kind that makes me giddy with excitement, as well as weighed down with an almost lustful need.

"Yes."

I blink back the tears – Brian's voice echoing in my head, "_Pussy!!_" - but I can't deny my more sensitive side all together, so I reach across the table and gently take one half-covered hand, still slender and pale and just as beautiful as ever, in both of mine. To my surprise, instead of recoiling in hesitancy or fear, he curls his fingers around mine and lets me hold onto him, even if this is all I'm allowed to do.

The thought makes me flinch vaguely. "This is really fucking hard, you know," I chuckle. "Not being able to do anything more than... this... when I just want to touch you--"

The sorrowful expression comes over his features again and he shrivels back from me, though he doesn't tug his hand away. "I-If it's too much--"

"No!" I exclaim, tightening my grip in case he _does_ try to slink off – though I don't squeeze hard enough to be demanding or cause him discomfort. "It's okay," I assure him, offering a timid smile of my own. "You're worth it."

A half-smile pulls at his lips, and he stares down at our joined hands, sniffling. "You may think saying things like that is dangerous – that it leaves you open for me to hurt you again... But it's lovely to hear, nonetheless... And I think," he adds with that humorless chuckle, "I really need it right now. It may be nice to hear it from anyone, you know, fishing for compliments or whatever..." He glances up at me, shaking his head. "But it's more special... it _means_ something... coming from you."

"Well," I snicker, "I could get into how it might mean more because you _know_ how honest I'm being when I say those things, that it's not just a ploy for a--"

"Simple one-off shag."

"Er... yeah. But I can't lie and say you don't get to me. Even at the cost of my... my _pride_."

He smirks, peering at me closely. "But you... don't really seem to _have_ much of that... if any..."

I raise my eyebrows. "Exactly."

He blinks and sits up a bit, scratching at his head in thought with his free hand. "Well... neither do I, apparently..."

"If you truly didn't," I try to point out, "then you'd have no problem telling John to go fuck off--"

"It's not what you think, Ted," he interrupts, not sounding fed up, but pleading for me to understand without an explanation. Completely disregarding my rather bad attempt at dark humor, too, taking my poor joke as seriously as I secretly meant it. "Being with him is pure cowardice on my part – you're absolutely right. There _is_ a choice – but not much of one, and I don't think I'm willing to pay what it takes to get me out of there. So, in a sense... I _don't_ have a choice..."

"So you say," I mumble, but when I see Matty lowering his head, hurt by my insinuation, I instantly regret it and squeeze his hand encouragingly. "Look – nevermind about all that. Forget it. Just let me... Let me buy you a drink. C'mon, it's a bar, after all – what'll you have? My treat."

Sheepishly, he clears his throat and answers, "Um... Just a cola, then..."

Startled, I turn wide eyes on him. "Oh?"

"Um..." He fidgets uneasily, tugging absently at an earlobe. "I think I've had a bit too much wine lately... Think I've had me fill for a bit..."

I'm surprised, to say the least. But oh well. "Um – okay, whatever.."

And so the next several weeks go by without incident: we continue meeting at the bar, getting back into our previously easy flow of regular (and absurd) conversations. Weekends feel longer than they ever did, and the workdays fly by as I'm too busy to think much about anticipating the chance of being stood up again – but the longing to see him when I _do_ get a free moment is overwhelming. Ricky catches me a few times when I'm like this, and I finally end up confiding in him that I'm in love with a "married" man... which just confuses the hell out of him. But he tries, at least, to offer me some comforting words...

"There's more fish in the sea, mate."

"You're a nice bloke, I'm sure, er... loads a' guys... who're like that, anyway... would love to be with you... Er... I guess..."

"I'm sure he'll come round eventually, mate... Well, maybe..."

So much for support. Brian's sporadic phone calls to inquire after my sex life aren't exactly fountains of consolation either...

"It's been _months_, you twat! You're almost past the halfway point, so your time's running out. You don't fuck a sweet European ass or _get_ fucked some hard European wood soon, I'm denying I know you when you return..."

This could very well be a good thing, I muse vaguely...

And then, one night, Matty doesn't show. I'm a bit concerned, especially since things have been going so well – we've held hands again, gushed to each other about our feelings, even kissed just outside the bar a few times before reluctantly going our separate ways. And he didn't let on about anything being wrong at home the night before either. So when he shows up the next night, looking exhausted, miserable, and moving like a dazed turtle, I'm even more worried. It's like his depression has become so tangible that it's weighing down his physical body.

"It's just John," he mutters, clearly put off by even having to mention the guy's name.

Immediately I tense, wondering what kinds of ridiculous rules the asshole's set up now.

"Oh, nothin'," Matty assures me when I ask. "He was just in another fuckin' mood last night... Had me tied up again..." And he looks away, as if ashamed to meet my gaze after admitting how easily his lover can take over his life.

"Damn," I chuckle, trying to lighten the situation. "He certainly likes keeping you busy. What was it this time? House chores? Laundry? Finishing his students' homework?"

He's too despondent to answer, just keeps his gaze low as he shakes his head and stares blankly at his half-covered hands.

After I follow that look and spend several long minutes studying those very same lovely appendages with my own eyes, I suddenly have a massive brainstorm – the perfect way to cheer him up, and a nice treat for my hungry eyes as well... and I won't have to risk scaring him off by groping to touch him either.

Though that's what I'd consider the _ideal_ arrangement...

I rouse him into following me out of the bar, and lead him over to my car in the parking lot beside my building. He's confused, a bit reluctant, and his movements are sluggish and weary.

"Ted, where the fuck are we goin'? Oi, did you pay Judy for our drinks? What the fuck are you doin', mate? C'_mooon_--"

"God, do you ever _stop_ talking? I think I liked you better mopey and mellow – maybe I should've just let you sit in there and sulk."

He sticks out his tongue at me as I wave at him to get into the car, pulling absently at the blue beanie which has reappeared to cover his enviable mop of jet-black hair (it had been missing for a couple of weeks in order to allow the gash on his forehead to heal, but now it's back with a vengeance).

"Anyway, I can't tell you where we're going, otherwise that'll spoil it."

"Spoil what?"

"It's a surprise!" I exclaim, climbing in beside him. "But don't worry, I'll have you home on time..."

Minutes later, we're at the jazz club Ricky first brought me to – the first place I ever laid eyes on my new under-wraps, would-be boyfriend. After my persistent urging (re: relentless _pestering_), he finally breaks down and goes to the stage. After a few words with the musicians (which, I note, include a few nasty gestures in my direction), they easily agree to let him up to play with them. He jams with the group on several songs as I sit at a table right by the stage, watching his hands fly fluidly up and down the keyboard with ease. Being so close, I can actually _hear_ his contribution more clearly than any other instrument this time, and I'm struck fully with the realization of how vital that offering is to make the music sound more whole.

Little by little, the tension in his body and displeasure on his face begins to abate. When he's reached a point where he looks relatively content, having gotten out some of his stifled creativity (and smothered frustration over living with someone he can barely stand to be around) on the piano, he finishes off the song they're playing, and as they pause for a break, he starts to come down from the stage, waving a thanks to the group.

But I hold up a hand as soon as he reaches the last step, stopping him before he even reaches me. Like a groupie to a rock band, I call out a request to him – for Chopin.

Shocked, Matty gapes at me ridiculously.

"_Are you insane!?_ You know what club this _is_, right?"

I wave at him demurely, as if fully expecting him to comply with my "request" (more like "order") with no further objection.

Stumped for anything to come back at me with, he glances back at the other musicians, appealing to them for help, apparently. They only shrug helplessly, having seen and heard my rather loud command, and the leader waves encouragingly at Matty as well.

The man stands on the steps, jaw hanging as he realizes that he's now been _sentenced_ to my seemingly random whim.

Scoffing indignantly, he turns and shakes his head, shuffling back to his rightful place in front of the instrument. He glances over at me, his eyes smoldering, and I just grin back like an evil little imp; this draws the first laugh out of him I've heard all evening, and finally he gives me what I want.

The club's dull, dingy atmosphere is suddenly split with the stunning, awesome arpeggios of Chopin's _Etude #1._ Within moments, his bemused expression morphs into one of intense concentration – and euphoric determination. He could easily pass for one of those magnificent, genius composers of old, I think – and this time, instead of being brushed off or totally ignored, the power of his performance is so strong that every head in the club turns to gawk at the tiny man absorbed in the complicated, impressive piece – which, halfway through, takes a well-improvised turn towards a more appropriate bent, fitting his truly somber, hopeless mood from earlier. As he finishes his solo with Rachmaninov's _Prelude in C-sharp minor_ (one of his favorites, I recall him mentioning to me during one of our many conversations about the classical composers he's infatuated with), not one person in the place is distracted from his playing. I glance around briefly out of curiosity, and it only takes that once-over for me to be sure of this.

At the last chord, there's a long, heavy moment of silence in which, holding my breath, I watch as he drops his hands into his lap, shoulders slouching as if he's finally released mountains of pent-up energy and hysteria into a positive (though half morbid, if you will), productive outlet.

He's so relieved, in fact, and I'm so glad to see him as such, that we both jump when the club suddenly erupts into heartfelt, appreciative applause at the boy's unmistakable talent. Looking out over the audience as if confronted with a vat of snakes, he tries to regain his composure and shyly holds up a hand to thank them – then hurriedly scurries off the stage to huddle by my side at the table, crouching low in his seat and covering his now pink face as I laugh at him.

"I can't believe I did that!" he groans, his voice touched with the familiar giggle I find so charming. He even pulls the beanie down over his nose, as if, if he can't see them, the clapping patrons can't see him.

"That was great," I assure him. "Now if only you'd get over your stage fright..."

He groans again, sinking even lower – but a short while later, after he's recovered enough to take the cap off his face, he doesn't refuse when a few anonymous people send over drinks for him.

"See?" I tease as we leave an hour later. "I told you – everyone loves you."

Taking me off-guard, he stops abruptly and turns to me, grinning provocatively as he clutches my shirt collar and yanks me close to him.

"That's nice," he tells me in a husky voice, "but I only need _you_ to do that."

And he kisses me – right there, out in the open, with no coercion from me – with such buzzing, passionate abandon, that, for the first time in these last several weeks, I can erase any regret or negative ounce of dread over him still being with John – because, for a few long, hypnotizing minutes, I'm able to _forget_. He does too, apparently, smiling against my lips and ignoring random people passing us by on the sidewalk as we practically make out in front of their gawking eyes.

Once back in the car, however, the reminder of _him_ comes back as I ask where Matty lives so I can drop him off.

At once, the heavy atmosphere from earlier comes crashing down upon us again, and he tells me, "Um... Best just to go back to the pub... Judy's, I mean. I'll get home from there on me own."

I can instantly think up at least five reasons to object to this – but I don't say one of them. Instead, I say nothing the entire way back.

But when I feel his long, cool fingers sliding over my thigh as he inches closer, and the pressure of his cheek rests on my shoulder, I give in yet again to that helpless urge and instantly forgive him any small detail he doesn't feel "safe" telling to me.

As long as he's here with me, whenever he can be, and I'm loving every second of his company – that's all I need. Besides, it's not as if I _need_ to know where he lives – it's not as if a time will come when knowing that sort of thing would be _useful_. Or, you know... _vital_.


	8. Chapter 8 HIM

8 - HIM

_Ted:_

Two months left. I hadn't initially been keeping track of my time here since my arrival, but when Brian mentioned coming up on the halfway point, I started paying closer attention, especially since that time seems to fly by too quickly when I'm with Matty. And as of tonight, if all goes according to plan, I have two more months left. Eight weeks. Around fifty-six days. And of that, only a few hours a night for forty nights with Matty. If I'm lucky. And I'm _not_ always so lucky.

In the past two weeks alone, he's already been "tied up at home" three more times. That's at least nine hours I've lost with him, possibly more. He's not quite as paranoid about being home by ten at the latest, but he doesn't let the time get away from us either. From what I can tell, it seems he and John have reached a point where Matty's become unresponsive, and so John doesn't have as much to lord over him. But Matty doesn't want to be a "disrespecting cunt," so he still gets home at a "decent" hour.

I've never been so attached to someone involved in a relationship such as this – where the controller has such a strong hold on their "other half" that it looks and seems every bit like an almost _abusive_ situation. But Matty still has his own mind; maybe he's covering for John's ridiculous demands when he claims that "it's no big deal" or "it's the least I can do, just common courtesy," but he does still show mild irritation over having to abide by some ground rules.

It would make sense, especially for someone who's twenty-seven (I finally pried it out of him, just another example of how little he'll reveal about himself that a lot of people don't really hold so precious) but has never lived on his own, to feel smothered by some aspects to it – and really, I don't understand _why_ he puts up with it. I've never really been the most rebellious kind of person myself – maybe just the passive-aggressive urge to alleviate boredom was what led me to look up gay porn sites on the web while at work, years before Brian hired me (but honestly it was just my blatant and unending need for sexual release that fueled that carelessness that eventually got me fired). But even _I_ wouldn't stand for someone ordering me to be home by a specific time.

Well, rehab is a bit different, and they have legitimate reasons to ask certain things from you. But it's been years since I've needed to be in there, and before coming to England, I'd voluntarily still been attending the meetings at least twice a month simply of my own accord, not because it's required of me. Yet years after my own abuse abated, I can derive comfort and assurance from those meetings, so it's not a heavy price to pay for messing with your own life.

The heaviest price, I think, besides risking my own life and safety, was the almost catastrophic effects my using had on my friendships and other relationships. Though I feel closer now to some of them than I ever was before I got into that hell, I often wonder if I would have taken the same road, had I known how my choices would change me. I know I've grown and learned from all those experiences, but surely Emmett and I can never be quite the same together as we were before – though it's a deeper connection and understanding of each other presently, there were so many past events that had just been pure and simple _fun_. Fun which we'll never have together again, if only for his concern over how these incidents could possibly drive me back to drugs; or for my worry over how my responses may cause him to reject me again from his own suffering.

The things I put some of my most dearly loved friends through is hardly worth the fantastic high I would get – and in this way, I have to wonder what exactly Matty feels he's getting out of staying with John if he's so miserable, no longer _has_ any friends or family contact, only _me_, on a very restricted level.

But, as he said, I guess it's not so much an addiction as it is a need to be with him for practical purposes. Well, he didn't say it like that, more like, "It's just easier this way," so I guess that's what he means.

But I have to wonder how off his own words are when he comes into the bar looking so utterly happy to see – of all people – _me_, night after night. Practical or comfortable doesn't necessarily mean "happy," and if I'm the only source of true happiness for him anymore... if that is, in fact, what he means... well, then he really _does_ need to get a life.

But whenever I suggest this, even in the lightest of manners, Matty becomes quiet and either shrinks into himself, shaking his head sadly like I don't get it, or gives me a cheerless look as he insists, "I'm not into you purely because you're _here_, Ted. If I was, and all you say about me is true – that I could have anyone, or everyone would love me if I just come out of my shell a bit more – why haven't I jumped from you straight away to some other bloke by now?"

Which is a good point – but so is my own poignant comeback of, "Because you still aren't convinced – you lack the confidence, which doesn't just come overnight. You've been wanting to leave John for over a year at _least_ now, and how ready are you to do _that_ yet?"

It stings him for me to bring up the obvious, but he doesn't snap back – so he knows I'm right... though he still continues to insist he's just not interested in playing leap-frog into various guys' beds. He would rather concentrate on getting the courage to move away from John and onto _me_ instead of boosting his immediately hungry ego with the desires of horny dudes with grabby hands. Because I _mean_ more to him. Somehow, I'm _it_ for him.

But it doesn't hold as much weight when he tells me these things that make my heart flutter with hope, filling my brain with notes to myself about checking out how I can take him home with me legally – and the next night, he doesn't show up at all.

And the night I mark off in my personal calendar that I have two months left here, Matty is nowhere to be seen as I wait at the bar.

The next night, I'm in my usual place, and the constant nagging worry in the back of my mind, that this is all a dream or a very elaborate practical joke (probably set up by Brian, to get me off-track of the "marriage" idea so many of his gay friends have gotten locked onto while he still remains anti-commitment), comes to the forefront as the minutes tick by into hours, and there's still no sign of him.

Not long before ten, Judy comes over to tell me he's just called – he promises to be here, he _swears_ it, and he's sorry, but to please just wait a bit more, he'll come as soon as he can...

It's the first time I actually get to watch as Judy closes up. She tries to think up excuses that would seem viable, but even she has her doubts this time.

After all, I repeat in my head until I pass out in bed around four in the morning (only to have to wake again in three hours), he'd _sworn_ that he'd be there. Two nights in a row – he's never missed two nights in a row...

Christ – I didn't want to cry over someone, goddamnit. That was why I'd made those rules for myself to begin with. Maybe it would've been better for both of us if I'd never seen him that night at the jazz club. Or even if I'd chickened out the time I recognized him at Judy's.

I wasn't supposed to do this. I wasn't supposed to get hurt like this.

If he shows up tomorrow – later tonight, whatever... because of course, I _will_ be there waiting for him again, no matter what – I wonder what excuse he'll have this time.

I wonder if it'll make this pain go away.

_Matty:_

The weekend from hell. That's the only way to describe it. One stupid slip, made early Saturday morning, and it only ends up being the catalyst for another multiple-day enslavement to a heartless, insecure bastard who enjoys using my weaknesses against me to gain his own wants.

I try to shove him off when he wakes at three Saturday morning and starts feeling me up in my sleep – rudely interrupting a gorgeous little dream I'm having wherein I'm playing Tchaikovsky on a cloud of sea foam for my adoring, awe-inspired lover, who watches me intensely with those large, warm brown eyes before sweeping me into his arms and holding me so closely to his chest. Just when it gets to the good part – you know, when he slips off the silk wraps that cover my body randomly and starts sliding his strong hands all over my heated flesh – I'm jostled awake by an even stronger paw on my arm, pulling at me to turn over. I grumble irritably at him to sod off, I'm sleeping – and he yanks me over anyway without a word.

More alert now, I open my eyes to his looming form and attempt to push him off by his shoulders, complaining that he's smothering me. But controlling mitts clamp on my hips and pull resolutely at my boxers, unwilling to let my protests deter him from satisfying his deep-night craving. I struggle to free myself from the fierce hold, still running solely on a natural impulse to stop the unwanted and the adrenaline of being startled awake, not thinking of how my actions will only incur further, more violent responses.

I hear fabric tear, feel a rough chafing against my waist, as one hand grips my throat, a wordless growl by my ear, and the other careless claw rips away the impeding cloth. I snap at him to calm the fuck down, he's acting like a bloody animal – but it only earns me a stifling kiss (for lack of a better word) to shut me up, the hot, wet tongue silencing me more effectively than the typical bit of cloth or ballgag. But the disgust of feeling the warm saliva he's unable to hold in when he gets in such a state as this dribbling down my cheek makes my stomach churn. I cry into the hungry mouth on mine and he groans back with far more pleasure as his tongue laps at mine, the hand at my neck reaching up roughly to seize me by my hair, yanking my head back to give him better access to control the unwanted kiss.

Simultaneously, the hand at my hip dips behind and below my waist, squeezing my arse harshly as he thrusts into me, pulling me closer against him and downward to create a delicious friction on his rock-hard cock – for _him_; for me, the pressure and strain is painful enough to draw another cry from my throat, but even my "freakishly" long hands are too slender and delicate to have any effect on the forceful, hulking form pinning me to the mattress.

The hand on my cheek slides inward effortlessly, prying two thick fingers into me without warning. My own fingers clench against iron pecs, unconsciously trying to dig nails in whilst consciously just reacting to the raw intrusion. My leg lifts instinctively, a heel digging into the mattress to get an adequate amount of leverage so I can push up from the demanding digits that long to penetrate me as deeply as possible, but the weight on top of me holds me fast as my foot slips and I only slump back the few inches I've managed to gain to come slamming back down scathingly on the probing hand. I shriek into his mouth and he pulls back for a moment to smile knowingly down at my wince. I gasp noisily the first chance I get, my eyes just barely closed from the shock, too abruptly taken to register an extreme reaction of smashing them shut entirely.

The fingers shift minutely inside of me, and to my chagrin, the aching recedes into a flood of pleasure as he strokes my prostate. My half-lidded eyes roll back and flutter faintly, a soft whimper escaping my parted lips at the surprising touch. Giving the false impression that I'm enjoying this – I even feel a flush of arousal surging to my cock as he lifts his upper body slightly to press me further into the mattress using only his hips. The contact of his throbbing, burning flesh against my own slightly swollen member encourages my body to dutifully respond, but my mind is in an entirely separate space.

"You like that," he says – and though he does so in such a tone as to make it sound like a question, the sentiment is an unspoken statement of fact between us.

"Stop it," I demand stubbornly, however shrill and breathless it comes out; I should know better than to say such things at times like this – or anything at _all_, really: despite truly meaning it, genuinely feeling the mental urge to refuse him, my body is known like a rhyme to him, and he loves hearing me when I'm like this. He knows just how to arouse me, how to make the physical bits of me react how he wants them to, whether my will is compliant or not. And he knows damn well I'm unable to cease his playing me like a bloody piano merely for the fact that he's stronger and bigger than me. He can hold both my hands together over my head whilst a fist impales me repeatedly, and with strategically placed legs rendering me open and exposed, there's not a thing I can do to stop him.

But he's not aching to ram a whole fist in me tonight, though the intended appendage is not quite a relieving alternative.

Relentlessly brushing over that tantalising spot deep inside, he grins and claims my moaning mouth again, pressing my head into the pillow to keep me relatively still as the other hand snakes down the length of my petulantly writhing body to my leg. Pulling his fingers from me at last, he clamps his meaty claws around my small, smooth thighs and eases them open without hindrance, despite my pointless efforts to lock them together. Spreading me wide enough to ache, his grip shifts to underneath, lifting my lower half off the bed and tugging me to him. He abruptly tears away from me with a gasp of his own as I feel his cock twitch with a surge of arousal over his simple dominance of me, so turned on by my sheer weakness next to his strength. A sob escapes me as I know what's coming when he kneels between my forcedly spread thighs and pulls slim legs over his shoulders. I try in vain to sit up, to push back, anything to keep from being penetrated in this sadistically fearsome fashion he so shamelessly loves...

But my panicked grappling, of course, is of no consequence, as his hands move to my twisting hips and easily maneuvers them to such a position where he's plunging his enlarged shaft effortlessly inside me – tensing my entire being as a scream of agony rips from my throat, snapping my head back and freezing my limbs into a display of shocked, stunned helplessness.

He pauses for only a moment to stare down at my vulnerable, lithe form as I pant for much-needed oxygen, and tears creep from the corners of my eyes. He takes in the sight of me like this as a rabid beast would, feasting on what his massive figure can create – or destroy. I don't even have to look to know the expression of heated pleasure on his face, that feral grin that mocks my protests – I've been horrified to see it enough times that it lingers in my imagination even when my eyes are blindly wide and unseeing with this much anguish.

I've been raped before – but it's never been quite as excruciating as it always is with John.

"So tight," he groans with approval as he starts pumping the engorged length in and out of me. "Oh God, you're so _fucking_ tight..."

My voice comes out automatically with every thrust, the force of each blow expelling an inevitably high-pitched shriek or screech without my even trying – in fact, _despite_ my attempts to _restrain_ them. There's just nothing for it; the act itself, like when he wickedly schemes to exacerbate an arousal he knows I don't want to experience by molesting specific parts of me that are more sensitive than others, is so powerful that I can't _not_ give a vocal response. Stifling it only causes more pain, more tears, causes me to lose more breath and gain more of his ire – because if I do manage to silence it, he'll only give more, harder, deeper, faster, until I'm bawling uncontrollably and bleeding.

"That's it, love," he hisses as he leans forward, catching every one of my cries full-on. "Let me hear it, let me hear you suffer..."

The position of him gradually leaning into me, giving him more access and opening me that much more slightly, makes him groan in pleasure, his voice and body trembling fiercely as my own hitches and breaks – I literally sound like a woman tortured, and he loves it. Not even the scraping of that spot that normally melts me with pleasure is nearly enough to alleviate any of it, and my pain only enthralls him more. He drives himself inside with quickening snaps of his hips, his hands planted on my waist and holding me steady as he pummels me, gasping with a gradually heightening excitement as he uses my body so greedily.

"Oh yes," he answers to my endless pleas of desperation as my hands reach up to clutch the pillow around my head. "Take it, you bitch – take all of it--" He leans in far enough to hover over my damp face, huffing and moaning deeply while he switches between slamming into me at top speed, the sound of slapping sweat-slicked skin filling in the gaps of my strangled sobs and his husky grunts, and mercilessly undulating inside of me, filling me fully with every inch, so I can feel his hips digging into the undersides of my thighs, and swiveling his pelvis in slow, agonizing circles.

"What's wrong, Matyson?" he taunts me with that sick grin when I turn my face from him, feeling his hot breath on my cheek. His tone mocks my very real tears, and I wonder for the millionth time why the fuck I ever got involved with this frighteningly sick twist – this fucking insane, sadistic bastard... "Had enough already?"

I try to nod, my hands reaching blindly for his shoulders, gasping for him to stop, it hurts, it's too much...

But he shakes his head with a morbid chuckle. "Oh no – not nearly, Matty. You think I'll be satisfied so easily? I'll never get enough of you, love... Not even when you've got nothing left to give... Besides..."

One hand slides from my waist, grazing over my hip and stretching between my legs. I start violently when his fingers grasp my now soft cock tightly, tugging gently at it.

"You're not even warmed up yet," he whispers, and buries his face in my neck, stroking me with a shaky hand as his thrusting hips continue their now moderate rhythm.

_Shit. He wants __**me**__ to get off, too._

Panic subsiding, I resign myself to the idea that this won't end without my compliance; I hesitantly give in, closing my eyes and allowing my mind to drift off as I feel his heated flesh against my fingertips.

It takes an immense amount of concentration and energy, but soon I hear his grunt of approval as I harden in his grip, my shrill shrieks swallowed whole, morphed into a slightly deeper, throatier whimper. How I can change so drastically when it's necessary is probably beyond him, but I have my own little secrets. When absolutely trapped in his neediness, I've created methods to cope with whatever I face. The last resort, so to speak. Probably leftover effects from the mistreatment from my stepbrother – just find that void deep inside where everything disappears – and dive in.

At least, that's how I _used_ to cope with this; recently, though, I've discovered a new mindgame to save myself with. My eyes closed and my hands wandering carefully, almost lovingly over his tense shoulders and muscular back, I can make myself believe, can convince my dying mind, that it's not him. As long as I stay mum about it, he'll never know. Will think these soft, trembling gasps and murmurs of satisfaction, as he touches me and fucks me, are for _him_.

I can even block out the predatory hiss, ignore the filthy mouth as he tries to fill my ears with such disturbing indecencies. Trying to brainwash me into acceptance of a role I never truly agreed to.

"That's it, you little cunt – take it up that sweet little arse, just like you like it--"

I find my body starting to respond to his thrusts, rather than just focusing on the warmth of his fingers caressing my cock.

"You know you love this, you shameless slut – dirty fucking whore – you'd spread your tight little cheeks for anyone who wants to stick their filthy fucking cocks inside – that's why I do it, baby – that's why I have to teach you, every night, every time--"

I feel my muscles clenching sporadically around him, drawing random grunts and groans from him as his entire body works on top of me to climb that figurative ladder towards oblivion.

"To teach you – _fuck_ – to... show you... that you're... all mine... Oh shit – fucking _God_... You belong... to _me_... _Fuck_, you feel amazing..."

My mental daydream has overtaken me as well, and I'm coming back down on him hard, moaning my desire plainly and erotically as he rides me full-on, pulling almost entirely out before slamming back home and making me scream with pleasure.

"Yes... Oh _yes_... Please... _Please_, fuck me... Fuck me, yeah..."

His fist on my cock quickens, and I sob – quite differently from before, though the tears still remain on my cheeks – uncontrollably for him to keep going, to fuck me deeper, make me feel it throughout my entire body--

And then the blinding implosion of light behind my eyes renders me speechless for a stiff, still moment, and while I feel I'm suffocating gorgeously from his continuous pounding through my orgasm, an unearthly moan fills my chest and leaks out my mouth without my consent – as if I truly am inside my dream...

"_Teddy..._"

I don't even register my mistake – and I don't care either. His hand's already soaked with my cum, so I don't have to play a conscious role in this anymore. Still, it does start to hurt a bit again when, after a frozen moment of disbelief, a furious fist catches me across the face and smears blood over my mouth from my own split lip.

"Is that 'is name, then, eh?" he shouts at me, hands clutching my throat as I float into a deranged, grinning delirium with still-closed eyes. "Is that who you're after? Little fucking _**cunt!**_"

And his finishing attack on me is enough to snap me back from the drifting bliss I'd been so obliviously entrenched in. I'm not sobbing or crying anymore, but the last several strokes he takes – each one punctuated with a different foul name for me – are fierce enough to yank short, startled shouts of pain out of me before he finally curses and fills me with his cum – though I'm sure his own orgasm feels far more hollow and meaningless than mine.

He collapses on me when he's sated, panting and swallowing as his fingers clench reflexively around my torso. I open my eyes finally, staring blankly up at the ceiling and pretending not to notice the body in my peripheral vision, his shoulder rising and falling with the rhythm of his laboured breaths.

He's still inside me long after he's through, but I don't say a word – I've already said enough, one name that will linger in his mind for the rest of eternity. One that could very well cause a complete wreck of things.

But then, maybe I _want_ it to.

"That's him, is it?"

I don't answer – the image of my mate from years ago flashing through my head as he handed me another lager and some pills.

"Who is 'e, then? Hm? Who's stealing you from me?"

His words seem pleading – but they're not. They're threatening, even as he strokes my hair and nuzzles my cheek. The threat only increases in my head when I feel his arms move to snake under my back and reach around so he can enclose possessive fingers over my bare shoulders.

"_Who is he?_" he whispers, his lips grazing over my smooth, upturned chin as my still-empty gaze remains fixed on the blank plaster above us.

His tongue sneaks out, trailing down my throat; he licks at my neck lovingly – but then contrasts that gesture of affection with a careless snap of his hips – reminding me of the raw pain below as his already rejuvenated erection warns me of another onslaught if I don't start talking.

Despite the start I give, I settle back into my position without a word, even if it _is_ basically back into _his_ arms. I only shake my head in response.

"You don't know?" he asks, working himself around to make me cringe. "Or you won't tell me?"

I bite my lip hard – maybe it'll take some of the other pain away. I shift my gaze into his burning, hateful eyes – and shake my head again.

I know that look that comes over him, then. The one of resolution and promise. His promise that my weekend won't be very relaxing at all.

I've still not spoken to him much – not at _all_ about Ted. But by Monday night, after calling out of work and feeding me my dinner in bed – I can't do it myself, you see, what with being tied up again and all – he's about ready to give up. He's surely had his fill of sex this weekend, I think darkly to myself, but with a hint of hope. So maybe tonight, he'll...

"Well, you won't eat, you won't eat," he huffs when I turn away after two bites. "Sorry I'm not the brilliant _chef_ you are."

I glower at him, but look away before he catches it.

"Aw right, then," he says casually, setting the food aside. "Time to get down to business." And as he starts to unbutton his shirt, I groan, letting my head fall back against the bedframe.

"John..."

"Well, if you'd just _tell_ me who this bloke _is_, I could go meet him and get it over with," he reasons, sounding comically logical. "How am I to know who he is if you don't tell me? I only want to know who you're planning to leave me for, you know – want to see how much better you're getting when you abandon me to be in a safer bed – _oops!_ I mean, a safer _home_..._"_

I roll my eyes at his sarcasm, shaking my head in disdain. "I won't--"

"Oh, but this isn't even about this _Ted_ fellow anyway," he cuts in abruptly as the trousers come off. "_This_... is purely for my own enjoyment. You know – a nice shag, just for me, not for any other reason like getting you to tell me anything. Just a pleasant activity to share with my _lover_ before the start of another trying schoolweek..."

I scoff and attempt to pull my legs away from his hands as he reaches for them.

"Oh, what's the matter, love? That afraid of me, are you?"

I glare back hard at the wry smile.

He raises his eyebrows. "I promise to use lube this time--"

"Like that'll help _now!_" I spit at him – and actually see some red splatter on the duvet.

He shrugs. "All right, then, no lube – whatever you prefer--"

"Bastard," I hiss, slumping into the pillow.

He pauses an inch from my face, and informs me airily, "Oh – and in case you were wondering – no, I don't think it would be a good idea for you to go out tomorrow either. In fact, you'd do best to stay indoors until I feel good and ready to let you out."

I narrow my eyes at him; as if I thought he'd _allow_ me to...

His grin widens. "How d'you think poor little _Teddy_ will feel about you now, doll? Not showin' up two times in a row? And then not at all, until he's sure you've passed him over? Oh dear, I hope you hadn't made any plans this past weekend – your interrogation may have interfered..."

I lash out with angrily kicking legs – and as silly as it sounds, I actually catch him in the balls once, which is enough to send him stumbling to the end of the bed. I feel like congratulating myself, but then he only comes back twice as hard, groping for my legs before they start kicking again.

"Fuck the lube," he snaps as he yanks me open brutally. "You don't deserve any."

The only good thing that results from being tied up for so long, and so often, is the fact that, especially over the last few days, I've had the chance to wriggle and ponder, to attempt and come very near succeeding at undoing my binds.

When I finally do succeed on Tuesday evening, whilst John is still at work, I'm so relieved that I nearly cry with joy. But I can't waste time on that – I've too many things to do.

See, with John _here_ all weekend, and then Monday, I wasn't able to do much of anything at all, since he kept me in his vision constantly. I ate a few bites he gave me; I pissed when he took me himself; I tried to clean up my sorry-looking face (only a few cuts and a bruise, the lip healing on its own rather well, since he kept most of the beatings focused on the rest of my body, so I just look pathetically malnourished and sleep-deprived – but I do believe some ribs are bruised), but he stopped me from finishing, saying there was no point to it.

He also insisted on keeping me awake the entire time _he_ was – and whenever he drifted off, I forced myself to stay conscious so I could work at undoing the ropes. Which didn't even come undone, of course, until tonight, but I came close a few times.

So when I finally passed out Monday night whilst he had me again, I suppose I fell into such a drastically much-needed sleep that I didn't wake again until a short time ago. The clock on the wall told me it was close to nine, and looking out the window, I knew it was evening.

The first thing that entered my mind was Ted – sitting at the bar... waiting for me... or possibly at home, already cursing my name and swearing off love all together again...

With the most determination I've felt in a long time, I finally freed myself from the ropes – not without a fair bit of struggling and earning myself some deep, raw scratches, but it gained my freedom, so I don't even care.

Now free, I stumble weakly to the loo, emptying my bladder whilst wondering if anyone from work has wondered where my correspondence has been the last couple of days. I need to check on that, I tell myself, but later – first things first, and my priority, of course, is Ted.

I carefully run water over my wrists, attempt to use some soap on my wounds, but the stinging is so severe that I can't bear it. I wipe the small amount of blood from my face, then limp back into the bedroom to find some clothes.

The loosest things I can manage, of course. But long sleeves are also necessary.

My movements are slow and staggered, as I'm feeling like absolute shite, but I have to do this – have to get out. Of course when I go to leave, the door is locked from the outside, and recalling this as I tug uselessly at the handle almost defeats me.

But then I'm overcome with fury – indignation and fury over being treated like such an animal when I've done virtually nothing to warrant his freakish paranoia over these things. Sure, I want to leave him; sure, I'm in love with someone else; all those things he feared for years are coming to fruition now.

But, I decide here and now, firmly and stubbornly, none of that would have occurred if he'd only been _good_ to me – if he'd never called me those names, convinced me I was shite, told me what a bother I was that he was doing society a favor by taking me in. And especially the beatings – just like my bloody family, just like those bloody stupid bastards back west, the cunts who took advantage of my size, who let themselves feel puffed and proud for hurting the likes of _me_. As if that's some big accomplishment!

And forcing it – taking it when it wasn't on offer; ignoring my pleas to stop, telling me what I want as if he knows...

Fuck. At this point, _Ted_ knows me better than you do, ya cunt...

Ignoring my aching ribs and the shooting pains in my back and belly, I grip the door handle and yank with all the energy and strength I have. It takes several long, seemingly hopeless minutes, almost pointless attempts – but I'm persistent... No, in fact, I'm bloody _blind_ to any other option anymore.

As I let out an irate scream, careless of who hears me, the latch finally gives and I fall on my (ruthlessly abused, therefore torturously sore) arse on the floor, panting and grunting with the spent effort. But when I lift my pounding head, I feel a burst of excitement that demolishes any hint of physical ailment that would typically hinder me.

It's open.

I scramble to my feet, ready to launch out the door – and then am struck by my own apprehension...

What if he's not there? What if something's happened to him that I don't know about? What if he's scorned me, sworn me off for good this time? What if he doesn't want to see my horrid face again?

No words he's said to me yet are enough to squelch my fears, so I rush into the kitchen, finding the pub's number easily, as John's taped it to the wall next to the cradle. I punch in the numbers and anxiously wait for an answer, pacing and chewing on a fingernail as I count the rings...

At Judy's typical greeting, I sigh with relief.

"Jude, it's Matty – oi, is Ted there?... Yeah? Oh, thank God – is he waiting for me? Oh good... Look – listen – do me a favor, yeah? Tell him I'll be there – I _promise_, I _swear_ it, no lie, I _swear_ – I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to make him wait, I'm sorry, and I'll be there as soon as I can, I'm right out the door the second I hang up, yeah? I'll be there, I prom--"

I stop when I hear a click – but it doesn't sound like it was from her end. Confused, I grope for the extension, checking to make sure it hasn't come out.

"Hello?"

The silence freezes me to my spot. Swallowing hard, my gut filling with dread, I turn to face the doorway to the living room.

Taking up the once empty space there is John's shadowed form, his hand holding down the hook on the phone. He's wearing a smug smirk, and I feel my injuries burning and aching just from the look in his eyes.

I didn't even hear him come in – how did he--

My eyes dart frantically to the door behind his shoulder.

Yeah – didn't hear him come in the _open_ fucking door. Of course.

_Fuck_. I almost feel like letting him go at it willingly – stupidity such as mine _deserves_ the beating of a lifetime.

He tugs the phone cord hard enough to snap the receiver out of my hand.

"Oh no," he says in that menacing tone. "No, you won't."


	9. Chapter 9 A Fool In Love

9 - A Fool In Love

_Ted:_

The liquor is especially tasty Wednesday night. I take my time and nurse my first drink for almost a full hour.

I should be seated at the bar, I think morosely. It's not as if I have company, and Judy's that much closer for a refill when my glass gets towards the end. Don't feel like getting up for another, but I could really use a second.

My inner prayers are answered – all of them – when a familiar half-covered hand sets a full glass of red wine in front of me.

I lift my eyes to his pinched, withdrawn face. I suppose the beanie fell by the wayside – but this is more dangerous for me... I prefer him without it.

He tentatively sits across from me, pausing for a long moment before taking a breath and pushing further into the booth, like it's a strain for him to move.

I won't let my weakness for a pretty face make me come undone, I tell myself forcefully the second I feel my resolve starting to crumble; enough of this, enough of the mystery – no more holding back, even if he does...

_Shit_...

...look like the most ignored, abandoned puppy...

_Fuck_...

I look away quickly, clearing my throat. "All that guilt must feel pretty damn heavy," I quip bitterly, foregoing a thanks for the drink.

I admit it: I'm immature.

His closed eyes show the pain my words inflict.

At his silence, I mumble heartlessly, "I said I'd let you use me no matter what – not that I'd be quiet about it."

The gorgeous indigo remains hidden from me, his face still turned toward the door.

Not even the lone tear that sneaks out can ease my pain, though; cannot soften my jagged exterior.

Inwardly, I'm begging him pitifully to stop playing me for a fool, to just fucking _love_ me, goddamnit...

His voice is low, haunting: "I suppose an apology won't cut it anymore."

I sit back and rest my arms on the table, studying my full glass silently.

Slowly – _achingly_ slow, in fact – he turns to face me finally. I take note of the cut lip and the new gash on his cheek, the faint bruise under one eye.

"Walk into a door this time?" I drawl cruelly. "Or wait – did another step disappear under your foot? Or will saying too much give away your super powers?"

He stares at me, eyes wide open and shining sadly.

"I don't expect you to understand."

I tilt my head to the side. "Try me."

He pauses, eyes averted, and winces. "It's not easy... being the kind of person I am... where I was..."

"Enough with the abstract babble," I cut in abruptly. "Just tell me straight, for _once_ – who _are_ you?"

He must see the genuine frustration in me, the desperation in my face. His own guarded expression falters, his breathing coming fast and heavy, his lips parted in an attempt to speak.

Finally, his hands groping for me, he gasps and blurts out, "I'm no one special, Ted. I'm no one to bother with... but I wish to God I were..."

I take his hands, gently, my own face softening and voice changing into a soothing tone. "I think you _are_ special. And I think you're worth so much--"

He's already shaking his head. "Not for what he'd do. Not for the things he would do if he knew you..."

I blink in confusion. "Wh – Who? John?"

He nods as more tears are shed, bowing his head low. "He's horrible, Teddy, and if he ever knew who are you... He'd do something equally horrible, I know he would..."

I squint at him, trying to make sense of his words. "What – to me? Or to you? Would he smack you around like he so _obviously_ does already--"

"It doesn't matter what he's done to me – I'm the one who went with him, I deserve whatever I get--"

"Wait, hang on – went with him – what're you talking about?"

He lifts his gaze to me, tears on his cheeks and a pleading to his eyes like I've never seen before.

"Will you hide me, Teddy? Please? I've nowhere else to go and I can't stand to be there anymore – I can't go back there, I just _can't_--"

I hold up my hands defensively, waving them in his face in a panic. "Hoooold on a second, whoa – back up a bit--"

"Please, Teddy, I'll explain later, but just say you'll take me in, _please_, and I'll come with you right now--"

Slamming a fist on the table to get his attention, I glare into his startled face heatedly and remind him, "_You're_ the one who wanted to honor all his stupid fucking rules this whole time! _You're_ the one who repeatedly let him come between us when, as an _adult_, you can do whatever the hell you damn well please! Whether he gives you a hassle at first or not, whether he lashes out with a smack or not – you _can_ stand up for yourself, you know. And now you're asking me to _sneak_ you away from him!? After saying he's such a threat if he knows who I am!? What the fuck--"

"He doesn't know you," he tries to assure me, his voice becoming shaky and shrill. "Please, I promise, he doesn't know a thing about you--"

"Is that as good as your promise to show up last night!?" I roar back, not even able to keep my own anger in check.

At my outburst, his hands jerk back, a gasp betraying his once resolute decision to come to me like this tonight.

But at my following silence, he only lowers his head and nods.

"I deserved that," he whispers, tugging his sleeves down over his thin fingers. "I did. Don't apologize for it – I did."

I let out a heavy breath, holding my head in my hands and peering up at his stricken face. He sniffs and wipes carelessly at his cheeks, shaking his head as if ashamed of himself.

"All right," I breathe softly. "This is how we'll do it."

He glances up at me with such a look of ardor that I can't help but recognize the appreciative sigh of happiness I feel inside. But I have to put that aside for now – there's business to take care of.

"I know you, Matty – I think it's safe to say by now that I at least know your personality well enough that you aren't one for sneaking around and lying. Not that you _can't_ do it, but you don't enjoy it."

He gives a half-shrug, and I take this to mean I'm on the right track.

"It tears you up every time you have to come up with another excuse as to why you skip out on me every few nights," I continue, trying to clarify my meaning.

He flinches, shaking his head. "But I've been telling you the truth – I get--"

"Tied up at home," I repeat nonchalantly, waving it off. "Yeah, I know. It's always that same vague excuse."

I pause when I realize he's finally looking at me – _straight_ at me. His eyes wide and shocked, as if he can't believe what he's hearing, and isn't sure how to feel about it suddenly.

"What?" I chuckle. "Never realized how often you use that line?"

He blinks, taken aback, then bites his lip and makes a funny, stifled sound like a half-swallowed sob before gulping hard.

"Y-Yeah... I... guess..." he grumbles, sounding somehow bewildered.

I shake my head at him, rubbing my temples. "Honestly, Matty – I'd love nothing more than that take you in. Even if just for these last two months I'm here..."

The mention of it makes his forehead crease with something like hopelessness. But he says nothing.

"But I'm not gonna help you just run away from someone who's obviously done so much for you, who's obviously so _important_ to you, that you feel indebted enough to him to let him... basically rule your life for the past eleven years!"

He chokes on a real sob this time, covered palms against his eyes, and nods in agreement. I can hear his foot tapping manically below the table.

"What you need to do," I go on, determined to make this clear, "is go back and tell him straight out that you're leaving. You'll feel better about it, and he won't feel like he's being lied to. You'll even gain some confidence from standing your ground and being honest and up-front about it. Maybe if you express yourself clearly, he'll be more understanding."

He laughs at this into his shirt sleeves – a sudden burst of hysterical, shrill laughter that dies down quickly. Then he just nods along with me.

"Okay? Is that logical to you?"

After another still moment, he drops his arms to show me the twisted smile on his face – eyes full of mixed emotions and a nearly blinding listlessness.

"Yeah... I got it, Ted." His voice flat and dull. "You're absolutely right. It's just... so bloody simple, isn't it?"

I'm disturbed by his demeanor, but assured by his words. Still not certain of how he takes it, though, I offer, "Do you want to do it now? I'll drive you over and come in with you--"

The panic resurfaces instantaneously and he whips his head back and forth forcefully.

_"No!_ No, you can't come!"

I hold up my hands to calm him. "Okay, okay – you can do it on your own, then. I just wanted to... to help you..."

He smiles briefly – his eyes welling up again – and reaches over to pull my hands down. "You... You have, Teddy. Really. You already have."

I sigh with relief at his more relaxed tone, and reach to grasp his wrists. "You do this, and I promise you'll feel--"

But as soon as my fingers close on his arms in a tight, affirming grip, Matty lets out a sharp hiss – one I've heard before, I recall vaguely – and snatches his arms back to cradle them protectively against his chest.

Startled, I jump at his reaction. And as he catches his breath and starts to awkwardly shuffle sideways out of the booth, I get a funny sinking feeling in my gut.

"I'll... go now," he says as he struggles – _struggles?_ - to stand up.

"W-Wait, Matty," I stammer, suddenly having a bad feeling about my own advice. I reach out and grope for his arm again, briefly catching his loose sleeve. It flutters up a few inches on his arm--

And there they are. Those same light brown bruises from before, from when he _supposedly_ fell down the steps – only this time, they're pink, purple, and raw.

As I gawk at the wounds, he quickly steals his arm back and covers it again, giving me a cold stare.

"I've _never_ made up a false excuse to cover for my_self_," he insists icily. "Every time I used those words... I meant them as much as when I told you I love you. I've only ever lied when I was stupidly trying to cover for _him_ – and I stopped that pretty damn quickly, when I _thought_ you had a clue..." His steady gaze into my widened eyes falters slightly, and changes from rigid... back to warm and caring.

"I just... never wanted you to worry, or get involved. You see," he goes on sadly as I remain frozen on my ass in the booth, "it's not that I'm afraid to be without John, Ted. It's never been about that. It's just... if I try to leave... well," he laughs a hollow laugh and starts to back up toward the door, out of my reach. "I'm just afraid... he'll kill me."

And with those delightful words lingering in the broadening space between us, he limps – _limps!_ - out the door to the street.

Leaving me sitting in the booth alone, too stunned – at the actual facts glaring me in the face and at my own blind stupidity – to move.

I've always known that two guys living together in a "romantic" situation, especially for as long as they have, can result in some rough incidents... It's just in our nature, to be typical brutes sometimes.

But then, Matty simply isn't... _typical_. Nor has he ever struck me as a _brute_.

Still, I thought... maybe a tiff here, a row there. Maybe a few harsh words and a careless blow that's regretted and forgiven within moments.

_This_...

How could I not have _seen_ it?

The feelings of worthlessness. The severe, inexplicable lack of confidence. The coldly guarded expressions and acute fear of being open.

"_I'm a terrible klutz"_ – the same night he gracefully danced out of the way before he could knock Judy over – dead drunk.

The shadows under his eyes – no... those weren't shadows, I realize.

The paranoia, _needing_ to be home on time – and then not showing up the day after an occurrence of being late...

The tears in his eyes when he said those things, giving them a whole new meaning suddenly:

"_I can't __**leave**__ him"_ – No... it was _I __**can't**__ leave him._

_"I can't __**see**__ them"_ – The people who stared at his beauty – no – _I __**can't**__ see them__**.**_

_"I __**couldn't**__ make it last night... I __**can't**__ come out on weekends... I __**couldn't**__ get away..._"

And worst yet – Oh, Jesus...

_"I got tied up."_

Those damn bruises on his arms...

_"...if he's still got some fight left in him... something equally energy-draining..._"

He's been telling me all along, right from the start. He's been more than just honest – he's flat-out _said_ it. But I wasn't _listening_, I didn't _hear_ him – I only heard what my _own_ insecure ego wanted to hear: pitiful excuses; lame reasons to explain away my own lack of confidence; reasons I'd concocted myself in order to give me a reason to mope over being abandoned, instead of seeing what was right in front of me.

He was _pleading_ with me – and I just thought he was trying to _avoid_ me.

_"It's not that I don't want to leave him – I __**can't**__... I'm not able to... If I could get away... If I had a choice..."_

It wasn't a request on his behalf to stop me from loving him. It was a plea for my help – because he wasn't _allowed_, at the risk of... _this_... The things he couldn't tell me – the things he couldn't say...

"_Will you hide me, Teddy? Please? I can't go back there, I just __**can't**__--"_

He's been asking for my help all along. _He's horrible. I'm trapped._

And I've just told him to go tell John himself...

_"I'm afraid he'll kill me."_

Oh fuck... Me and my fucking pride...

When I finally pull myself together enough to move a muscle seconds after I catch my breath, I'm already out the door, looking around wildly and calling his name. I race up the street in the direction I've seen him head before – those nights he left me with such sweet kisses before we parted...

But he's nowhere to be seen, and the panic in my gut is almost debilitating.

_If anything happens to him – oh God, this is my fault..._

I rush back into the bar and yell to Judy to come over – she sees my alarm and is immediately in front of me, asking what's the matter. I ask her where Matty lives, as if she'd know right off the bat, the information stuck in that computer hard drive of a brain, filed in between trivial Brit football facts and every cocktail recipe known to mankind. Of course she doesn't know, so I ask instead what the originating number is when John calls here for him.

"I dunno, love – we've not got ID here..."

I curse and run back outside before she can ask why I'm so desperate to know, take a few laps around the block, for once being thankful to my American friends for dragging me out to the gym all the time. But when that proves fruitless, I get the rental car and go searching.

For nearly an hour, I frantically look up and down every street in the neighborhood, and then all the ones around the jazz club he frequents. Speeding up and slowing down to peer into alleyways and squint at various other pedestrians in false hope that it's him – resulting only in numerous honks and curses at me as I confound and ultimately piss off every driver who has the misfortune to get stuck behind me.

Somehow, there's no trace of him anywhere.

Shaking and furious with myself, I finally decide to head home – maybe, by some miracle, he's already there: he knows where it is, and if he'd come to _me_ for a safe haven...

There's no sign of his presence as I make my way up to my suite.

For the next three hours, I perch by the window overlooking Judy's bar, the phone in my hands and my senses heightened for any and every possible hint that Matty is back.

I suppose the fact that four hours have passed since he left to "confess" to John (who most likely already fucking knows, you fucking idiot) can't be a good sign...

And then I get fed up – if I have to drive all over this whole goddamn city and knock on every goddamn door myself, I will--

The knock at my own door nearly sends me into a premature grave – but I regain myself quickly and rush to peek outside, my natural pessimistic side immediately suggesting the worst, like a coroner or a policeman coming to ask me to identify a body...

To my shock, ever so quietly and innocently, the side of Matty's head and his favored red jacket covering his shoulder are what meet my peeping eye. A puff of air, a breath I've been holding for an amount of time I can't even recall, expels from my mouth as I take in the sight of the visible sliver of his form while he leans against the doorframe. The wave of relief is more like a tsunami as I grab the handle and yank open the door, blurting out breathlessly, "Oh thank God, I was so scared--"

But as I look and take him in after the opening door reveals the rest of him, I realize that my fears are not completely able to rest.

His face and hair soaked with blood, dripping it onto his shoulders, from both his mouth, nose, and a new gash, probably deeper and wider if the amount of blood is any indication, hidden somewhere in that dark matted mess of tangled hair. Black eye and deep purple cheek, claw and tooth marks on his throat – _teeth!?_ - and that's just what's visible above his torn clothes...

And as his half-opened, swollen, bloodshot eyes focus unsteadily on me while I gape back at him, he breaks into a weary, exhausted smile.

"I did it... Teddy..." His voice is a rasping, cracking ghost of what it was only hours ago.

My chest aches, and I can only stand there gawking in disbelief of what this monster will do to someone he claims to _love_ – this isn't _love_... This is... just... _sick_...

"I told 'im... 'E knew already... 'bout you, I mean... But I told him – said I wouldn't... take it no more..."

He's struggling to breathe, one arm cradling his ribs as the other holds onto the doorframe for support – or just to blatantly keep from falling over.

"Said we was through, th' I was leavin' 'im... for good... jus' like y'said to – bein' honest an' the like... yeah? Stood up for mesel'... Won'... Won' do't no more..."

"Oh... fuck," I groan, a pit opening in my stomach when I hear his words. I reach out to him, ready to engulf him in my arms forever, but he flinches so hard when I merely touch him that I jump – not pulling away, but not making direct contact either... He's so utterly _hurt_, I don't know where I _can_ touch him without hurting him more...

"He... wasn'... happy," he chuckles morbidly, though his smile is as genuine as it can be at a time like this, in the state he's in. "But... I got out, though... Took some shirt for it... Or _**SHIT**_, even... **[XP couldn't resist, in such an angsty moment....]** but I made it... Woulda been 'ere sooner, but had ta wait... till 'e was 'sleep an' aw... to undo the ropes again..."

I'm shaking my head forcefully, tears choking me with every word he croaks out. "Oh Christ, Matty – not like this--" I say, crumbling right in front of his heavily lidded eyes.

He lets out a small sound of confusion, tilting his head down a bit, shifting ever so slightly against the frame.

I dare to step closer, resting my palm on one cheek that doesn't look so painful, simply damp with sweat and spattered with blood. "I'm so sorry," I whisper, wincing as I long to just wrap my arms around him and hold him – but if I do that now, he'd probably just howl in pain.

"D-Don't say that," he says with his weak smile, peering directly into my eyes. "Aren't you... p-proud a' me?... I know... I am..."

And with these last gasped words, he finally collapses – and for once, I'm right there to catch him before he can fall.


	10. Chapter 10 Incandescence

10 - Incandescence

_Matty:_

I stare blankly up at the high white ceiling several feet above me, my eyes dry and burning. My head is quiet, but only because of the cotton-stuffed feeling from the pain relievers. They're working quite well, though not enough to alleviate the humiliation of having to sit through the most degrading one-sided conversation – more like an instructional lesson – on how to properly and carefully clean myself over the next few weeks, especially these immediately following days. This is necessary, the doctor says, to avoid infection and promote healing.

Bollocks. It wasn't necessary. None of this is necessary, as far as I'm concerned, but Ted wouldn't hear a word of protest when I woke in the car on the way here. I was too weak to explain my panic, in too much pain to do much else than plead to take me back to the suite. He readily admitted, so much fear in his eyes, that he couldn't help me. And that scared him.

I suppose I had lost a fair amount of blood. Stitches were, in fact, necessary on a few wounds. I could accommodate him there.

But this...

I just pray he doesn't offer to help me with this part.

I wish I were a doctor, so I could look at it as coldly and without the self-consciousness I'm plagued with, as the bloke who talked to me. Seeing it clinically, I wouldn't cringe as much at the idea.

I'd prefer to just do it using my old tried and true method: eat nothing for days, therefore having very little or nothing at all to... well, deal with.

But this time... had been different. I've endured pain before, extreme discomfort. But this time...

Okay, I hate to say it, but Ted was more right than even _he_ knew – it _was_ necessary. John had not just been a bit rougher than usual, had not merely aimed to make me squeal pathetically or cry to stop. He'd been brutal enough to render me a step away from passing out with the first move. And that was just the unwanted sex.

How I managed to walk all the way to Ted's on my own after that nightmare is still beyond me – perhaps I'd been running on pure adrenaline, or the unstoppable survival instincts that tend to come to the surface in me at such times.

I'm far too young and have seen far too little of the world to have gone through what it takes to reach for such a coping mechanism; more insane than this is the fact that this technique had become _familiar_ to me. But this is what one does when trapped in situations such as the ones I've been in for most of my life.

Of course, there was also the fact that I was bound and determined, by my own accord, to see Ted again – even if, it occurred to me at some point during that unending trek, it turned out to be the last time. As long as I could make it to him, I promised myself, I would be content with letting go of this pathetic physical body.

Alas, I survived. I almost feel as if this is a burden: now I have to _mend_, to suffer through the rest of it before I can feel normal again. But at least Ted is by my side this time, and that alone makes the whole dreadful ordeal worthwhile. He says he feels useless, only able to hold my hand and watch my face carefully, waiting for any flinch of anguish so he can instantly soothe it away, whether it's a twinge, or an overwhelming panic. But I assure him he's perfect for the job.

They want to call someone in on this, which is what I'd feared. I plead with them not to. Not that I feel John shouldn't have to pay for what he's done to me – but given the choice, I'd rather just not risk the slightest chance of seeing him again. Not so soon after he tortured me like that. Ted points out that he knows the pub I go to; he's bound to come looking. Even if he doesn't check at Judy's, this city is only so big, and in all the time ahead of me, assuming I take care of myself and don't die of some horrific bacterial infection from not cleaning my wounds well enough, I have more of a chance of running into him by accident and being in danger of getting hurt again, rather than the supposedly "preferred" option of confronting him face-on in a controlled environment, with witnesses and guards around to keep me safe.

But I just... I don't want... I can't think of this right now, it's too much...

"Stop running away," he begs me as I start quietly bawling my eyes out like a threatened child. "It'll only catch up to you again eventually – _he_ will catch up to you. Take care of this _now_."

But I can't... I can't explain why, I just _can't..._

After being reduced to a pitiful, disgusting puddle of helpless tears as I cling to Ted and reply to his words with my own begging to not make me do this, the doctor relents, but urges me to follow up on it when I feel a bit stronger – they have all the evidence needed to prove his guilt, and will be happy to comply if someone comes asking.

Free to go once I've collected myself, I stay huddled on the bed with Ted right beside me, letting myself be comforted by his supportive arms surrounding me. My hysteria abates the longer he holds me. His touch on my bruised back is gentle, as is the hand stroking my hair, and the soft lips grazing over my forehead, whispering assurances to me that I'm safe.

My breathing regulated and heart steadying, I allow my head to rest on his chest. I actually start to feel like his words could be true.

Not much later, in the car on the way "home," neither of us says a word for a very long time, just allowing the comfortable silence to ease me into a relaxed and calm state so I won't have another fit of hyperventilation before reaching his building. To distract myself, I begin a mental checklist of the damage that's been done – taking that cold perspective I longed for earlier. I run through what the doctor had assessed after the examination, and the appropriate measures he had taken to fix me up.

Three cracked ribs – no wonder it hurt so much to breathe... or move... or simply exist at all...

Sprained wrists – probably more from my yanking myself out of the ropes than the actual beating itself, though it couldn't have helped either.

Numerous muscle pulls and strains – more reasons to stay in bed and remain absolutely still for the next week or so... which will no doubt drive me insane; with my history, maybe I can bear a bit more of the old aches and sores than the average assault victim. Whether Ted likes it or not, I refuse to be bedridden for an entire fucking _week_.

Dislocated shoulder – no wonder I hadn't noticed my hurt wrists, since my left hand was numb anyway. I hadn't thought of how I was inflicting more harm on myself in the struggle to get out.

Five inch gash on the head and a few other deeper ones on my back and stomach, all requiring at least ten stitches each; several other minor cuts which only needed cleansing – and then colorful, cartoonish Band-Aids (on Ted's insistence, the silly cunt; at my look of disdain, he said I should have _something_ to cheer me up); and numerous ugly black and blue bruises covering various large portions of my entire body, including one that had evidently been dangerously close to my spine, forcing me to realise just how close he _had_ come to at least paralysing me... according to the doctor, anyway.

This had all happened to me because of John's uncontrolled fury unleashing itself on me when I told him straight out that I was finished with him and moving out – and he responded by smashing me into the full-length mirror he dresses in front of every morning. He proceeded to beat and kick the shit out of me whilst I stumbled round on the floor, trying to get my bearings and stand up. When I blearily tried to reason with his red-tinged image, as the blood dripped in my eyes from my head wound, he only went on to "teach" me yet again why I was expected to do all he told me without question or protest.

That was the second life-threatening assault, when he bent me over the bureau and brutally fucked me until I actually _did_ black out. My later struggle to breathe had been bolstered by his meaty hands clamping so tightly round my throat that he damn near crushed it, but for my own stubborn limbs pulling and scrabbling desperately to loosen his grip so I could get a gasp of air, instead of feeling my insides explode when he forced himself viciously inside me. Fighting against his iron fists had only exacerbated his ire, so in retaliation he'd smashed my head on top of the bureau until I lost consciousness. When I came to, he was not just tying, but _knotting_ my entire arms to the bedposts, repeatedly making the ropes achingly tighter with every new knot. He spat at me that I was a fool to think he would just _let_ me walk out on him. He continued the abuse on the bed, ripping at my hair to control my head, whether he wanted my face smothered in the pillows to muffle my shrieks or pulled up against his mouth to fill my ears with threats and degradation – which, by then, had lost meaning, as I'd heard it so often, for so long, even in similar situations as that.

But the physical brutality of it was more intense – perhaps because he had seen the confidence in my eyes when I told him my plan to leave. He knew that this was it, the real thing, not just some empty scheme to make him feel guilty for a bit. The first time I'd tried to run from him, I hadn't told him a thing – I'd merely gone to the jazz club one night and, upon meeting that bloke who was on a tear, went for it without thinking. This time, I had, at Ted's urging, gone to John with what I considered to be facts: I was going, and he wouldn't stop me.

Of course, John's always enjoyed breaking my barriers. So he thought in breaking my body, my resolve would follow suit. But even _that_ had not been severe enough to deter me. I can only imagine his shock when he wakes to find me missing – realisation dawning that I'm gone, and not a thing he had done to me was enough to frighten me into staying.

But really... I had only been acting on a whim – the compulsive thought on a figurative loop in my mind, that I had to get away, I had to get to Ted, I had to get out of there before he woke again. I hadn't been thinking of the wonderful future Ted and I could have, nor of how happy I would be. I simply had to get out – because, quite honestly, I _was_ frightened. I was bloody _terrified_. If I had done this before and Ted wasn't in the picture, I wouldn't have bothered continuing my rebellion; I would have been too tired from the struggle, too depressed from his insults, too hurt physically and emotionally to think I'd even have a chance making it on my own. John would have "won."

So it was Ted's hopeful eyes, that stunned look whenever he watched me play piano or heard me say something the least bit loving towards him – that was what kept me going. As I dragged my limp body from the bed (actually thankful for the first time that night that John had worked me over as thoroughly as he had, for now he was dead to the world in sleep and I didn't worry as much over waking him with my shuffling) and mindlessly dressed myself, wandered out of the room, out the door and down the creaking steps to the street outside, all I kept repeating to myself was that I had a reason to escape now.

In the car, I'm unable to keep from smiling secretly to myself when I glance over at his expression of concentration as he drives (probably repeating in _his_ mind, _Stay in the left lane, __**left**__ lane, Teddy, __**left**__...)._

As if I've some hidden treasure in my brain. In a way, I suppose I do, though I've already shared some of it with him: I love him so much, I'm happy for his mere existence, not even speaking of how lucky I feel to have come to know him. But the rest of that little "secret" is just as important to me as being aware of this love I have for him.

I didn't just leave John for my own sake. Only half the reason I ran out was to save myself. But since I've never felt like I was worth all the trouble, I needed an equally valid reason – or one whose validity surpassed that of my own safety – to nudge me in that direction to do as I truly wanted.

Teddy has revealed to me, over the past several months, in both his words and my own intuition of the person he is, that he had given up on ever finding anyone to fully trust and love again. He'd honestly believed it, too – and perhaps it _had_ been true. His cynical, caustic side had already begun seeping into his naturally kind, compassionate self, eating away at it until he was bitterly laughing off any hint of a compliment towards him. From anyone. Random people who saw us regularly at the pub and stopped by the table to slur greetings to us; the musicians at the jazz club who thought Ted was a right proper "boyfriend" to support and encourage me when it was obvious I was still shaky on a stage; even Judy herself couldn't break into that thick head of his with her occasional comments about how "cute" he looked when she caught him staring at me, or called him "love" and "darling" and such (nevermind that she calls everyone that... except a few blokes who she refers to as "gassy bitch" or "bloody cuntcheese").

When similar words of praise spill from my lips, he brushes them off modestly, unbelievingly, as usual – but then he'll pause, casting me a furtive glance, as if asking himself, _Really? Hm... Maybe he's not shitting me..._

He _trusts_ me, basically, despite my poor record with the nights I've stood him up. Though now, I'm sure he understands _why_ I'd not shown on those occasions, and he probably feels like a right bastard for it – but I don't blame him one bit, actually. In fact, knowing that I'd been speaking literally those times I said I was tied up at home, he's probably more apt to believe me when I insist I would much rather have been at the pub with him.

Of course, he could always come back with something like, "Well, from the sounds of it, going to a great-aunt's funeral would have been more of a joyride than what you _did_ have to do, so getting drunk with a loser is obviously more appealing..."

All right, I will come clean right now and admit it: Ted is not the world's top male model. And from other points of view, I'm sure he could easily be taken for a nerdy type, a completely goofy dorkboy.

But personally... I _like_ those things about him. They aid my comfortable feeling when I'm around him, like I've nothing to be ashamed of, even if I have held back so far. But not anymore. Anything he wants to know, I'll tell him. Not because he's "earned" it, but because... well... it's _safe_ now.

Just like me. I'm _safe_ with him. I know this, I know it in my bones, and it's just one small part that helps make up the entire large picture of my love for him.

I quite enjoy being carried by him – cradled in his arms, I feel like nothing else can touch me. I used to have issues with my size, especially as a child: it was comical at first, thinking back on it now, how I fussed to scramble away when my mother tried to pick me up after I'd hurt myself (but I'd eventually end up in her arms anyway, and slip begrudgingly into a five- or six-year-old's typical ideal world of "Mummy's Love"); as I got older – but hardly _grew_ – it proved less comical and more frustrating. Actually, it crossed the line of "dangerous" several times.

But not anymore. Being so small can have its disadvantages, yes: giant mammoth bastards tossing you round as a playtoy when they don't get their way. However, there are perks to it as well, like having a _good_ bloke with strong arms using his power positively by helping you up the stairs, or ceasing a clumsy stumble, or, as Ted does for me, refusing to take "no" for an answer and preferring to carry me, so I won't have to strain myself or cause anymore undue pain.

Even he marvels at how light I am, despite him knowing my general slender build, then quips that, when I can manage solid food again, he's going to stuff me so full of heavy food that I'll be a hundred pounds in no time!

So he says, anyway; I've never had his cooking before, so we'll see...

Besides, being able to lift me like this makes him feel like some kind of bloody hero, he tells me, and I can let my head rest sideways up at his profile as he ascends the stairs to his suite with a determined expression.

"Good," I murmur, only half-joking from the delirium of pain meds. "Because you are. You're _my_ hero."

He glances briefly at my smirk with a snort of his own, acknowledging only my intentionally comical melodramatic side.

To make sure he gets the full picture – the genuine side as well – I crane my neck as he reaches his floor and press my lips lightly to the side of his throat.

I feel him chuckle at this, and pull back to peer up at him silently, until we reach the door to the room and he asks me to pull the key card from his pocket.

I remain still so he'll look at me, and when he does, I regard him steadily, a truly grateful glint to my grim eyes.

"I mean it," I whisper. "You are."

He hesitates, his half-smile fading gradually, then looks startled. "I didn't even do that much," he offers with a humourous scoff. "_You're_ the hero here, all on your own. You're the one who got yourself out of there, you're the one who came to me, you're the one who stood up to him – and _that_ was only because of _my_ stupid advice – see how much of a hero _I_ am?"

I shake my head instantly. "You didn't know how bad it was--"

"But I _should_ have," he hisses with a sharp spike of impassioned guilt, clutching me tighter against his chest suddenly. I wince, but I can endure it – the pain on his face, which he has trouble keeping directed toward me, is far more than what I'm feeling right now. (Besides, I'm on drugs – he's not anymore...)

"The signs were all there," he sighs when he gains control of himself again, shaking his head miserably. "You told me things so bluntly sometimes that I didn't hear them for what they were. I should've _known_, and I was unforgivably _stupid_ for not seeing it in time..."

I reach up, encircling his neck in my arms, pulling myself higher to look into his tearful, apologetic eyes. "You loved me despite all my restrictions and what you thought were rejections. In fact, you waited for me even when I didn't show. You talked to me and kept me interested so I wouldn't have to dwell on pitying myself for being stuck with him. You gave me a place to run to when I finally had a way out – you encouraged me to _take_ that way in the first place, convinced me I had the strength to do it. You caught me when I fell, you ignored my paranoia to get me care I needed more than I realised myself, and you held me – even now – when I was too broken to stay together on my own. And if timing played any sort of role in all this, then the fact that I'm still here – right here with _you_, in fact, and _not_ there with him – that alone is proof that you weren't `too late.'

"I can't think of one thing you have to be forgiven for. But if that's what you need to feel absolved of whatever fault you think you have in this whole mess, so you can stop feeling guilty and just continue to love me, then I forgive you." I place a chaste kiss on his partially open lips, his eyes wide and fixed on me – that adorable stunned look that makes me smirk with a guilty pleasure of my own.

When I pull away and realise he's still gaping at me, I blink and shift awkwardly in his arms.

"What?" I mumble childishly. "I really meant it, I did..."

"Shit," he chuckles under his breath. "What kinda drugs did they _give_ you!? And, uh... can I have some?"

"Oh--" I drop an arm low and grope what I can of his arse. "No manufactured chemicals for you, junkie!"

"What the hell--" he gasps, and lurches so sharply as I continue pawing at his bum that he nearly drops me in the process of trying to twist away from my reaching hand. But as is probably obvious, it's a bit difficult to get away from something you're carrying yourself.

I finally snag the plastic from his pocket. "Here," I snap haughtily, flicking the key card at his cheek. "Carry me over the fucking threshold already, you massive hot hunk – and don't hit me head on the way in or I'll chew your bollocks off! And I'm fully expectin' a cuppa hot gourmet stew as soon as you place me on my well-deserved bed of baby-arse-soft rose petals. After all, nothing less can be presumed adequate for such a bloody delicate flower of beauty and all that is good such as me, eh?"

After attempting – and failing – to cut in several times during my half-slurred, drug-induced rant, he instead chooses to wait until I'm through to arch one eyebrow at me and point out, "You're not getting _any_ bed if you don't put out a _twinge_ of effort here."

I narrow my eyes back at him. "Eh?"

He gestures to the carpet below his feet with his chin. "The key card – it fell on the floor when you threw it at me... seeing as, you know, I have no _hands_ to catch it with at the moment..."

I stare blankly at him for a second, and when he smiles benignly and tilts his head to the side, adding sweetly, "So, if you please..." as he slowly crouches down to bring me closer to said lost item, I scoff and roll my eyes like a put-out queen.

"Cor, ya lazy cunt – _fine_, make _me_ do all the work, even though _I'm_ the one who's bloody near _crippled_ with injury..."

He intentionally bumps my head on the way in – I know because he steps once over the threshold, pauses, then steps back again to _do_ it.

"Oops! Did that hurt, your highness? My sincerest condolences, oh buoyant one..."

_Ted:_

His first night with me is fairly uneventful – at least, for him it is. Loaded up on pain pills and already a weary mess from lack of sleep and being beaten, he's out before I get back to the bedroom with some extra pillows from the couch.

For me, though, between having to call Ricky to tell him I won't be in again until Monday (drawing whiny pleas from him to stay by the phone in case he needs to ask me something vital – like if he should order paper clips, or rubber bands, or if he has permission to take a shit...), and checking on Matty, not to mention still being too edgy from the whole bizarre incident to relax, I don't get a wink of sleep – at least, not for several hours. Instead, I pace the carpeted floor of my suite, worrying and wondering over everything from how to get Matty's belongings from his apartment without running into John, to if I've actually worn down the fluffy pink carpet Brian's money is paying for. Which starts me on a whole new train of thought.

He's said he can't get to his own money – which means John's in control of his bank account. I asked at the hospital if I should call his agency to let them know he won't be working the rest of the week, and he responded bleakly that he'd already been fired as of that day, for not reporting to them three days in a row. It may be a sore issue for him, seeing as the majority of that wasn't even his fault, but actually this can be seen as a good thing: it isn't like John will be hoarding incoming checks the next couple of months if Matty were to keep working for them – but it also means he has at least _some_ cash in the bank that's rightfully _his_. But how can he get to it? Is it a joint account? Or is it all under John's name? I'll have to find out from him once he wakes up – if he even knows himself. I get the impression John was one to keep Matty in the dark on purpose – if he'd had access to such things, leaving may not have been such a difficult decision to make before. He's only lucky that he ran into me, someone with a place to stay and no financial worries...

And that's when my typical doubtful alter ego sneaks up on me, shoving Practical and Planning Ted out of the spotlight to start dousing my hopes with gasoline – setting the rubbish heap alight with the ultimate matchstick: _he doesn't love me – I'm just a convenience, a lucky happenstance; even if he truly believes it now, one day he'll come around to the realization that he clung to me so tightly at one time because there was no one else to help him._

I try to overcome these dreary thoughts on my own, but I must be as insecure as John – in the end, I give up, and as the light from a rising sun starts peeking through the windows, I dare to tiptoe into my bedroom, fully prepared to wake him so I can ask him these heavily loaded questions – _again_ – about his true intentions.

But when I approach the bed and see his slumbering face, barely touched by the first rays of morning, I come to my own realization: I am _not_ John; I would never feel so insecure as to take out my own frustrating weaknesses on this innocence in front of me, which has come to me repeatedly, willingly, happily, even at the risk of endangering himself. Regardless of whether he's deluded himself into loving a loser like me, at least _this_ loser is decent enough to know how to treat him right. I may trash my looks and make fun of myself, declaring an outright lack of any "coolness" factor to begin with, on a regular basis... but I know, beyond my own doubt, that I'm relatively intelligent – and a hell of a good friend. Because, unlike eighty percent of the rest of the population, I actually _care_ about the people in my life. Shit, even people I _don't_ know matter to me. And I know in this day and age, that counts for a lot to those others whom I want to stay connected to forever.

Just knowing Matty in the short time I have has changed me. Given me at least the confidence to discover for certain some things about myself.

I _am_ able to fall in love again, even after past failed attempts – so I'm more hopeful than I thought, and my heart hasn't turned completely to stone (yet).

I _will_ sacrifice whatever I have to, in order to be with him.

And if anything ever changes... all I want from him is the assurance that he will still be able to sleep as peacefully as he is right now. To truly love someone, you want them to be happy, even if that happiness does not lie with you. So if that happiness on his unconscious face, that serene security that I've never seen in his expression before – and this is while he's unaware, too – is what I bring him, then I don't care _why_ he is – or _thinks_ he is – in love with me. As long as he's just like this, more content than I've seen him before, whether in a wakeful state, passed out cold in my arms, or dead drunk in a loud, smokey pub run by a transsexual in a bad wig.

Seeing him like that, I don't dare wake him up. But I don't want to leave him just yet either. Instead, I crawl onto the bed next to his covered figure, and as carefully as I can manage, I relax my muscles against him and the mattress, until I feel like I'm folding into his body.

He shifts slightly, mumbling incoherently. Alarmed that I've dragged him out of a nice dream, I immediately tense. His eyes flutter open to meet mine – and without a question or remark, he simply smiles angelically and turns to face me, tucking an arm around my waist and nestling his head against my chest. I lift my own arm to embrace his shoulders lightly, settling back into the pillows and closing my eyes.

Here, just like this, with no words or reasons, I can feel him sinking into me with a sense of safety like he hasn't known for... maybe most of his life. And being able to give him that, being able to hold him, just like this – that's what makes _me_ happy.

By Saturday morning, after spending all of Thursday and Friday in and out of consciousness as I tended to his wounds and got him used to food again – not to mention the experience of being held as he drifts off, which is obviously a wholly new deal to him – Matty starts to come around to feeling more like his usual self again. He's still bound (not literally, of course – like I said, I'm not _John_) to the bed, as far as I'm concerned, until Monday at the earliest, when I'll have to put in a lengthy (at _least_ eight hours) appearance at work, leaving him on his own for the first time since I took him in. But he's doing just fine in this pleasantly lazy state. In fact, I decide he's probably started to adapt to it a little too amiably when he suggests getting him a piss bottle, instead of going through the trial of hoisting him up and out of bed, crossing the room with his arm just barely reaching up and around my shoulders to make a ridiculous sight for any possible onlookers to snicker over, and then having to use the sink for support as I insist on being polite and leaving the bathroom while he does his business. He whines to me that it's not such a big deal – I was there, after all, when he was being examined at the hospital – but, I remind him fervently, I had stuck strictly to his upper half, and hadn't any inkling of curiosity to know how bad the damage actually _was_. _He_ reminds _me_, then, that he would gladly send me out of the room for _that_ part – but haven't I ever pissed in a public toilet before?

"I prefer using stalls whenever possible," I mutter sheepishly, and this somehow amuses him greatly.

"Blimey – I've lived in a virtual bubble of mine and John's own making for the past decade, and I'm still less self-conscious about my body than you?"

To which I respond with my embarrassed assessment of said body as I cast my gaze – half admiringly, half enviously – over his own.

"Oh _please_," Matty scoffs, tightening his hold around my waist as we lay reclined against the pillows. "You're not _bubbly_ or _revolting_... You're hardly even _husky_, mate – you're simply sturdier than me."

"Sturdy!?" I cackle. "That's being fairly polite, isn't it?"

He nudges under my chin with his nose affectionately, assuring me, "No – I _like_ how you're built. I don't see where you get _bubbly_ from – I only feel muscle." And as his long fingers squeeze my side gently, I have to admit that I can feel the pressure against a line of what can't be just flab – it wouldn't feel nearly as intense if the underlying substance wasn't as hard as it is. Again, I'm inwardly thankful that my friends are so vain as to insist on working out regularly back home (calling it "healthy," not "conceited," while I still want to say it's just plain "torture," though I still always go along). I may not be a gorgeous stud like Brian, who has already won the Lifetime Achievement Award for "Most Unrepeated One-Night Stands"... a few times over; or a hot little number like Michael, who hardly hides a taut and shapely six-pack under those Captain Astro fanboy t-shirts that are intentionally two sizes too small for his wiry but muscular physique.

But I'm no Emmett either – he can get away with being a bit softer around the edges, though, if only because there's a drastically longer frame to stretch it over. He's got his good points – especially that over-experienced mouth – but he's certainly no buff, hard-bodied hunk. Yet he still can pick up any random boytoy he finds compelling enough to pay attention to; all he has to do is shake his ass, like a dog wagging its tail, and he's guaranteed a lay for the night.

Now, Ben – Michael's "husband"- _that_ is what's commonly called "stacked" as far as referring to men who could be porn film cover models. As well as Mikey himself, come to think of it. But I can much more easily envision Ben taking the role of "model" more professionally than shy, giggly, modest Mikey.

Me, I'm not what most would call a real "catch," as hard as I try to see things from Matty's point of view. It doesn't help that I'm even more conscious of my age when I'm around him – well, until we actually start talking and he distracts my fragile ego from focusing too negatively on myself, that is. But all in all, I suppose the gym has helped to keep me fitter than most men my age.

And hell, I reason, if Emmett was able to have a satisfying sexual relationship with George – a man more than _twice_ his own age – and Matty seems to be (sorry, Em, but let's be honest) more intelligent than my best friend (though their sensitivity and emotional intuition both seem to be on-par with each other), surely Matty must mean it when he hints that he finds me attractive.

I vaguely wonder how I compare with Mister Fists of Assholiness, but then decide that, low self-esteem or not, I truly don't care: anyone who abuses his advantage over someone obviously weaker than himself – practically defenseless – isn't a real man to begin with, so there's just no comparison.

And taking Matty's own physical nature into consideration... John could very well be smaller than _me_ and still qualify as a bastard for beating him as he did. Matty may get sore over it (though actually he's never outright said that he dislikes or resents being so small), but I don't think I've ever known anyone – let alone been in love with someone – quite so... well... _tiny_. He even beats out Justin when the twink first started hanging around our little clique of weirdo queers.

In fact, I notice as I let my eyes roam over his figure curiously, I'd surprise myself with the remark that his shape could even be labeled "effeminate" – thought it would be a very bustless, hipless woman he would be modeled after (thank God, for _my_ sake). Of course I've generally always gone for the typical Greek God types myself. Blake, who was technically smaller than me, had well-defined muscle tone and a more "manly" appearance to his face.

Matty, on the other hand... Not to say he's particularly "girly" in his countenance, but to take a closer look, I'm forced to admit... yes, the cheekbones are just that much higher and sharper, the eyes that much more alluring, the small but naturally slightly-pouting lips that much sexier, to be considered somewhat androgynous.

His teeth are a bit crooked, with a particularly large one near the front jutting out slightly further than the rest, but this somehow only lends to him being even _more_ adorable than when he hides it under closed lips – like the gap between Em's front teeth: if it were ever "righted," he just wouldn't look like himself anymore, and I would always feel like something was not kosher about him.

And Matty's throat, that almost giraffe-like neck that's accentuated by his thinness, may look feminine in its slim, smooth shape, but that only draws more attention to the very obvious Adam's apple that bobs up and down when he excitedly rattles off lists of his favorite composers, overtures, etudes and the like.

Body-wise... I truly don't _know_ him as well as my other friends, which is funny because he's the only one I'm sexually interested in (anymore). Of course Blake and I had our on-and-off long-term relationship(_s_), which included sex, so I know him rather intimately. Despite it being _centuries_ ago (and probably blotted from his mind except on rare occasions when he wants to use it to his advantage), Brian hasn't physically changed much since our one-off time together (though I believe I have, but then, as he'll gleefully – as gleeful as Brian can get anyway, which amounts to simply "sardonic" – remind me, I'm a few years older than him in the first place). My short-lived attempt at romance with Emmett ended only a few years ago, and we're still as close as best friends can be, including the regular trips to the gym, where the main purpose _is_ to focus on one's physique. And, having been infatuated with him way back, I'd practically memorized every visible inch of Mikey with only my eyes, especially since he tends to wear tight clothes that make a point of showing him off.

Matty, then, is the perfect opposite of any one of these men: he _is_ the description of the phrase "skin and bones," to an unhealthy degree. Still, even after I've stuffed him with as much pasta and meat as I can find in my rented cupboards, I'm sure he'll continue to rank among the categorized "rail-thin." It just seems to be his natural inheritance, a short, lithe, narrowly-shaped form which gets positively _lost_ when wrapped in a sweater. Even the rare tight red long-sleeved shirt he's donned on occasion (re: clingy, hugging... downright _sexy_) can't make him seem the slightest bit broad or muscular; in fact, wearing _that_ only proves how diminutive he is. Unfortunately, I've only seen it on him a total of three times, and he'd been wearing his small red jacket every one of them (which, by the way, looks downright _bulky_ on him, whereas I'd probably tear the stitches trying to yank it on over my shoulders), so I never got a sufficient opportunity to properly study him like that.

_Damn_, I think vaguely as realization dawns on me once more: _It's probably still at the apartment. Well, it's settled – we simply __**need**__ to get back in there for his stuff somehow..._

I could kick myself for being so obsessed with such trivial things, but then... we were given hormones for a reason – even if some of us are still uncertain of that reason, seeing as we're not running out to procreate – so they argue with the rest of my logical brain that simply holding a desire to see this attractive person in a shirt that makes him _more_ attractive in my eyes (not to mention the swelling of a specific appendage in response to said image) is, well, perfectly reasonable. To say otherwise would mean denying one's true self, however shallow, superficial, and downright lascivious.

This internal struggle between evil and good, between craving to feed my starving libido and standing firmly on the ground of "intelligence dominates horniness," is nothing new to me. Feeling that struggle so fiercely, and for someone so utterly unlike the regular fair I'm keen on, _is_. But this upholds that claim on intelligence, if someone you wouldn't previously have considered to be "your type" suddenly is the most desirable creature under the sun – and looking closer, you notice that the mind inside that surprisingly alluring body is what truly draws you in. (Though, with Matty, I was taken the first time I looked at him; it became more intense over the time we got to know each other, of course, but even from the start, he struck me as dramatically eye-catching.)

The charisma, the aura, the energy of him – it's so consuming and beautiful that now, _all_ I consider "beautiful" reflects his image in some way. The contours of his body, which I'm still too afraid to touch out of fear of exacerbating his unearned wounds; the movement of small red lips as he speaks or smiles – _especially_ when he smiles; the graceful, flowing gestures of his long fingers as he tells a story or describes a scene; the shine in his paradoxically bright, dark blue eyes as he waxes passionately about an emotionally moving symphony.

Suddenly, my vision is unwavering, crystal clear, and life transforms into a meaningful exercise in becoming one with the universe. Just as he relates to me the purity of spirit that internally cleanses his earthly body when his lovely, skillful hands shift an alarming or awesome vision in his mind to an external canvas, or permeate intangible auditory waves with heart-wrenchingly gorgeous masterpieces from cleverly manipulated ebony and ivory keys, so I too am immeasurably touched, beyond the sensation of a mortal shell, to have the pleasure of cradling this precious being in my arms, feeling his breath warm and steady on my chest and those lithe digits entwined with mine.

He is not without faults; I'm certain of this. His hesitancy and fears have angered, frightened and worried me several times already. But, as I've already repeated to him over these last few months, he is, to me, worth every ache and pain that arises in knowing him – because those tragedies simply do not compare to the comfortable rapport we have between us – and certainly not to the stunned fixation that overcomes me whenever he reveals more answers to the mystery that _is_ Matty, whether it's another innate but oblivious talent that not just anyone can do (like creating music from out of nowhere when faced with a piano, or painting and drawing absolute visions with even the shoddiest of tools), or a particularly disturbing detail of his past which tellingly shows why he is how he is now. (As well as making me certain that his delicate shoulders are deceiving my eyes.)

Because with everything he's been through and everything he can do, at the end of a long, lazy day spent in bed, simply talking and listening to each other's voices in between short bouts of quiet cuddling, long, silent, meaningful gazes, and even an impassioned kiss or two (...or five or six...), he can still look me in the eye and shyly offer me that familiar, sweet, genuine Matty smile.


	11. Chapter 11 Bells For Him

A/N: A great big thank you and lotsa hugs to Matsiko for being the first to comment and review this story – and to encourage me to put up the rest of it (finally). Every author appreciates attention/acknowledgement for their work! Cheers to you, lovey!

11 - Bells For Him

_Ted:_

I have made a terrible mistake.

I suppose one can say I only brought this unfortunate turn of events upon myself, but whether it was my own unending longing to shower my precious Matty with mountains of love and security, or a trick of the universe to challenge my paradox nature of bitterness and generosity, the fact of the matter is that my actions consequentially unfolded a world of hurt upon my already weary body and psyche.

And all because of that....

_DING DING DING!!_

...goddamn bell.

I've been sticking religiously to a regular schedule at work now, ever since returning on Monday, eight AM sharp. It's a typical eight to five shift, with one hour devoted to lunch so I can use the extra time to stop at the suite and have lunch with Matty, making sure he'll be okay alone for the following hours I'm gone. After work, then, I spend all of my time tending to him – whether it's to offer a massage to ease his sore wrists, help him out of bed to get used to walking around again, or an inexplicable desire of his to feel me close to him (which, of course, is just _such_ a burden for me to oblige him...).

But Ricky's stubborn, paranoid spirit becomes an irritating interruption in these blissful hours between work and sleep, constantly setting my cell phone off with questions about various regulations regarding the agency, details about random potential clients, even wondering if his performance will be up to Brian's standards. (As if I've ever _once_ concerned myself over what _Brian_ thinks...)

It turned out that, despite my attempts to avoid late hours at the office, I was still getting dragged back into it on my off-time.

By the end of Matty's first week of recovery, I'd had to resort to setting myself up regularly at the computer, connected to the agency server, with my phone attached to my head, monitoring computer performance and checking company funding – even needing, at one point, to set up a damn three-way virtual meeting between myself, Ricky, and that smug-faced bastard himself back in the Pitts. (Greeting me, as usual, with that coolly presented, "Hey, Schmidt – gotten laid yet?")

During this Thursday night meeting, Ricky and I were impressed to learn that Brian had been offered the opportunity to do a huge campaign for a particular men's clothing line, which would boost his (already exceptional) bank account, along with his (already rapidly spreading ) reputation. The disheartening aspect to this offer was that, despite being involved in such an obviously – er – "loose" market as fashion (yeah, I'm so sure every top designer from, say, D&G, Armani and the like are clear-cut straight family men), the creator of this specific franchise happened to actually _be_ quite a straight-laced Republican prick.

Now, it's never been below Brian to go for the amoral (or what _"we"_ consider "amoral," anyway), in order to gain a buck – besides, more often than not, he'll have some underhanded scheme in the works to play to the benefit of the homosexual community at large – like years ago with the whole "Pool Boy" fiasco, which had almost identical elements to this situation at present. Some may have thought him a shameless business whore, but _they_ simply hadn't been informed of the miracle Brian had pulled off in doing that campaign: a staunch homophobe actually handing over a nice hefty check to an organization set up primarily for the purpose of promoting gay marriage? Will wonders never cease?! (Not to mention the mere nature of Brian's demand itself, considering his own perspective on the "strictly hetero" practice – but for him, it was the principle, not that he would ever do it himself, of course... and yes, despite the rumors to the contrary and the man's own behavior, Brian _does_, surprisingly, have _some_ principles.)

So I personally knew, upon hearing of this offer, that Brian must have had something similar cooking in that twisted brain of his. Ricky was too lost on the whole issue to follow, not being gay, American, _or_ one of Brian's closest friends (and for this he should be thankful...), but he did seem perplexed as to why Brian would consider helping a company whose owner reportedly disapproved of people with our "lifestyles." But Ricky had no problems with it directly; neither did I, actually – as much of a cold-hearted bastard as I know Brian to be (except for that small corner where he keeps the hottest blood pumping for those he actually cares about – don't tell anyone), I trust him with my life.

In fact, I _have_ trusted him with that much, and as usual, he didn't let me down.

Basically, whatever he decides to do about this should not worry _or_ surprise me.

Who _is_ worried and surprised, on the other hand, are many of his employees – the ones hired in the past year or so. Of course _I_ trust him; of course _Cynthia_ (his right-hand whore who has amazingly stuck by him after all these years without a word of complaint or discouragement, which actually makes me wonder if she's human, or perhaps the embodiment of _Ruthlessness_ itself) trusts him, as do the others who have been with him from the beginning. But some of these newer, younger folks are feeling restless about the idea, so his decision could very well have an influence on if he receives that "Hero Of The Gay Community" award again this year...

As much as I enjoy torturing the prick with degrading comments about his character (hey, it's not like they're false accusations, and it's not like I don't take shit from _him_ on a regular basis), I still told him to get all those clueless twits in the room with him so I could give them a scolding for doubting the very man who supposedly was intelligent enough to hire _their_ ungrateful asses.

But, as usual, Brian doesn't care – he'll do whatever the hell he wants, regardless of who approves.

It was around that part of the "meeting" that I heard a disturbing din from the bedroom. Excusing myself, I ran in to see what had happened, alarmed to find Matty on his knees on the floor by the bed, a look of extreme pain flashing over his features before he realized I was there to see it – and then the feeble attempt of his to disguise it with an eye-squinted, grimacing smirk.

"Eh... thought I could make it on me own," he mumbled sheepishly, gesturing to the bathroom. "Bloody leg decided to give out without tellin' us first..."

Of course I rushed to his side and helped him the rest of the way, but as I waited patiently outside the door, I called to him that we needed a better system for him to alert me when he needed me, if I was in the other room at the time. He insisted he didn't want to bother me while I was working, but of course I blew _that_ off like a fly making a nuisance of itself.

"But it's your _job_," he reminded me as the door creaked open again, a pair of wide, blue eyes fixed on me in horror. "I don't want to interrupt if you--"

I scoffed and assured him, "I'd choose you over that kind of shit any day." I then proceeded to help him back to bed, while he pointed out that my "job" was obviously important enough to me that I would move to a different country for an extended period of time at my boss's request.

"Brian's _requests_ are more like _orders_," I joked, but I had to admit that he was right: I may "take the piss" out of my own profession, but it's just a natural affinity for me to count, to play with numbers, to have meltdowns when the columns don't match...

Besides, as much as I despise Brian for so many things, I honestly love the guy, too – and the fact that he was the first to truly trust and depend on me after my stint in rehab only boosted my grateful feelings toward him. So yeah, I have a hard time saying no to the guy when he tells me to do something.

Especially, as I've said, waving a ticket to England in front of my face with the coaxing words "all-expenses-paid business trip..."

"Still," I reassured my tiny, weak (though as-yet untouched-by-me) "_lover_," "I'd much prefer to take care of you than have you falling and getting a concussion."

And so, the next day, before heading home, I stopped off at an all-purpose supermart...

And bought the goddamn bell.

Oh... how clear can hindsight _be_, I ask you?

_Ding!_

I eagerly ditch the glowing monitor in front of me to dash into the bedroom.

"Yes, my lord, whatever can I do for you?"

Matty beams up at me gleefully, awe in his eyes. "Blimey... It really works!"

I nod cordially, hands behind my back. "What dost thou request of thy faithful servant, my master?"

He smiles bashfully. "Erm... Nothin', really... Just testin' it out, actually..."

I smirk and sigh, inching reluctantly back to the door. "Well... Okaaaaay... But if you think of anything... Anything at _all_..."

He nods faintly, hesitantly returning to the open notebook and pencils I've brought him from work to keep him busy.

Back at the computer, I struggle for nearly an hour to debug the system which was reduced to almost nothing two days ago, just so I won't have to deal with it when I return tomorrow. When I'm nearly finished, I hear the slight _ding!_ of the bell again, and pleasantly return to the bedroom wearing the same grin as before.

"Yes, oh adorable one?"

He lifts his eyebrows at the endearment, but only smiles back wanly. "Erm... Would it be too much trouble to, uh... ask for a drink, please?"

I give a theatric bow and twirl of my hand. "Not at all, monsieur," I drawl in a poor French accent, and moments later return with a bottle of juice. He thanks me politely, and I shuffle back to finish my work.

Half an hour later, the bell sounds again, and I'm instantly in the room to receive a slightly more confident request to aid his majesty to his Porcelain Throne. _This_ part I'm even more eager to assist him with, as it means I have the chance to lay my frustratingly restrained hands on him, however gentle I'm forced to be.

Depositing him under the blanket once more, I again take my leave of him, stuck in front of the monitor to cheerlessly examine the latest expenditure reports Brian's emailed me – he doesn't trust my temporary stand-in, apparently, and wants me to make sure the newbie hasn't screwed things up too badly...

Fifteen minutes pass before the bell rings, and I push back from the desk with heavy eyelids, attempting to steer myself from the dull monotony of never-ending numbers so I can focus on my love's... alarmingly coy little smile when I enter the bedroom.

"Your highness?" I inquire airily, a bit wary of the offbeat grin on his face.

"This bell thing is really too much," he utters faintly as he studies the small silver object in his hand before turning back to me and holding out the empty juice bottle. "I'm, uh... done with that one..."

I accept his offering with a bow of my head.

"Oh, but, um," he goes on as I start to turn away. I reverse my position to face him again, and the newly formed grin begins to waver slightly "A-Are there any plans, by any chance, for, um... dinner?"

I gape, having been so absorbed in work that I'd completely forgotten about food.

"But of course, my worship!" I assure him. "I hope soup will agree with you tonight..."

He blinks at me. "Has it so far these last twelve days?"

I catch his hint of dry humor and chuckle back, "I felt compelled to assure myself. But yeah, just give me a few minutes and I'll bring you a bowl..."

Not ten minutes later, as I'm attempting to settle back into my computer chair, after being summoned twice more – once while the soup was cooking to fetch a clumsily dropped pencil; another time to bring him a spoon I had so thoughtlessly forgotten – the ring of the bell startles me, as I've barely gotten my ass back in the seat.

Poking my head in the door uncertainly, as if I think I've hallucinated the noise, I ask, "Did you call?"

He holds up the bell, showing me his teeth via a childlike simper. "No – I rang."

I roll my eyes. "Yes, m'lord?"

"Um..." He gestures daintily with his fingers toward the floor. "I seem to have, er..."

My eyes follow his wave and settle on the fallen spoon.

Smirking, I go in to pick it up. "I'll get you a new one. And perhaps a bib as well?"

While actually doing the first part, the ringing makes me pause in confusion – surely he can't need something urgently _this_ soon after I've just left... I snatch a new spoon quickly and hurry back, relieved but perplexed when I see he's perfectly content and relaxed in the bed.

"Yeah?"

There's a hint of bemusement in his eyes, but he just clears his throat and requests, "Would it be too daunting a task for you to, um..." He flinches vaguely, as if it pains him to ask.

"Anything you require," I remind him as I hand him the new spoon.

He peers up at me curiously, then hazards, "A, um... footrub?"

I laugh at his hesitance, and while he slurps the soup down, I try to oblige him.

However, it soon becomes apparent that this task _is_ a bit more challenging than the others – as he's _conveniently_ neglected to enlighten me that he's enormously... ticklish.

After slopping much of his dinner over yet another borrowed t-shirt, kicking me in the chest about ten times without meaning to, and laughing so much that I worry he'll bust open one of his stitches, Matty finally relents, giggling furiously as he excuses me from the task.

Halfway to the door, I jump at the sound of the bell.

I spin back to him, reminding him incredulously – and quite loudly, "_I'm right here!_"

"Oh yeah," he chortles, sounding like Butthead. (I may be too full of myself to actually have ever watched the show, but its hype is unavoidable over a decade later, and even I am not immune to recognition...)

"So, what else would you like to request?"

He holds out the empty bowl to me, announcing proudly, "_Done!_"

I study him silently, then cock an eyebrow upwards in response. "Er – you seem to have lost much of your dinner to the cotton on your torso."

He giggles and snorts like a child. "I know! Silly, eh?"

I scoff and take the bowl from him – it's probably safer out of his hands anyway. "I'll get you a new one after I get rid of this--"

But as I'm rinsing the dish out in the kitchen, the God of Impatience rings for me again. I nearly drop the fragile ceramic in my rush to get to him.

"Yeah?"

He's stretching the stained collar of the shirt out, away from his chest, a comical look of disdain on his face. "It's all _sticky!_"

"Well," I reason, hands on my hips as I chide him like a parent, "that's what happens when you pour half your soup on yourself. Maybe the bib idea isn't such a bad one after all, huh?"

He whines nasally at me and I heave a sigh of exasperation, sifting through my drawers.

"All right, all right, I'll clean you up – just give me a minute...."

"_Myeeeeh_..."

He giggles over my devoted attention to him when I hoist the dirty shirt over his head. "You really meant it when you said I could very well take advantage of you, didn't you?"

Feeling my face flush hot with embarrassment, I mutter – almost serious with irritation this time – "Of course I meant it. But I also meant it when I said I wouldn't be quiet about it though."

And as I replace the shirt with a clean one, he takes the opportunity to lean his head forward when I cinch the hem down over his narrow hips, and he plants a tiny peck on my nose.

I glance up at him in surprise, but he only grins back impishly.

"You're procrastinating with your work," he teases.

"No," I scoff indignantly. "I'm helping a klutzy imbecile recover from a messy spill."

To which he retorts with an immature protrusion of the tongue and a wet, sloppy raspberry. I place the notebook and pencils back on his lap and order, "Here – now let me go finish so you won't think I'm _procrastinating_ or anything..."

I make it out of the room, but not to the computer, when the bell rings _again_.

Huffing and puffing, I barge back through the door. "What _now!?_"

He's giving me a shit-eating grin.

"How far do you think you'd have gotten if I hadn't called you back?"

I glare at him with wide eyes, shocked by the amusement on his face – then sigh haughtily and slam the door – only to hear _DINGDINGDINGDINGDING!!!_ the moment I turn my back.

I burst through the door with a melodramatic wail: "What the hell do you _WANT!?_"

Matty looks up at me, all coy smiles and suggestive waggling eyebrows. "Just wanted to see your cute face again."

I stare back blankly for a long moment – then groan pathetically as I slink down onto the side of the bed, resting my face in his lap.

"You're evil, aren't you? Keeping me from my work..."

He giggles playfully at this, then bends down to kiss the back of my neck. "Only 'cos I miss you. Besides, you're just too precious when you're stressed."

So you see, I brought this wickedness upon myself.

As much as I love Matty's playful, energetic nature, even while bedridden and injured, my absolute favorite times are when he's calm and relaxed enough to let me hold him quietly, just before falling asleep or upon waking and still feeling a bit drowsy. I get to bask in the warmth of his body against mine, the gentle touch of his hands as he clutches me – but after weeks of being unable to do more than this, mostly because of his internal injuries, I soon begin to feel the start of a rather annoying urge to go further. Annoying, I say, because I know damn well I simply _can't_ do anything else but this, for the time being. And as that time seems to flow by too quickly with him, I realize morosely that I'm only going to be lucky enough to experience this much with him – by the time he's fully well, I'll probably be due back in Pittsburgh before I get a chance to... well, _be with_ him... and that's still only considering the physical trauma.

Of course, I say nothing of this to him outright – it would only make him feel helpless and guilty, which I don't want him to take on, since this wasn't his fault at all.

But he must pick up on my longing and frustration, as I tend to become more quiet than usual and melancholy whenever we find ourselves in positions – circumstantially as well as physically – in which something sexual could, or usually does, happen. But my refusal to give into these urges and coax him into doing something that could very well do him more harm must touch him deeply, make him think more of me than even before, since he probably was never treated with such respect by anyone else given this kind of chance with him.

At least, that's what _I_ think. And then one night, several days after he is able to move around on his own and has been up and mobile (certainly much more active than I could be after enduring that sort of punishment) and even gone out on his own to do some jobhunting, as we lay on the couch and listen to some randomly chosen symphonies together, he turns to face me and asks bluntly, "Do you find me repulsive now?"

Taken aback by the question, I can only gawk at him in response, lost for any other words but a stammered, "W-_What?_"

He repeats his question, not sounding whiny or pleading, or even _hurt_. He's honestly curious, as if he just wants to know how the unemotional chemicals in my brain function.

"No," I finally blurt out once I find my voice again. "Of course not. What makes you think I would?"

He lowers his eyes shyly, reasoning, "Well, having been there when they examined me, and actually knowing the sorts of things I've allowed to happen to me--"

"Matty," I cut in sharply, though without a hint of coldness. "That wasn't something you _allowed_ – you had no _control_ over it. You couldn't stop him. I know that."

He hesitates, then, squeezing his eyes shut tight as the emotions finally begin to seep through. "It's just that... I get the feeling like... you're afraid of me now. Like all those things you may have felt for me before, all those things you might have... wanted to try before... with me... Like you'd think anything done to me would be perceived as... well... unwanted. So then maybe you would start to... not want me in return."

I'm not entirely sure of what he's trying to explain to me, but to clear up any doubts on his mind abut whether I _want_ him or not, I lift his chin with my hand and stare back into dark, wet eyes intensely.

"I've wanted you since I first saw you," I tell him sincerely. "Nothing's changed that – not my own obviously ignored rules, not my own misperceptions and confused heart – and certainly not any disgust you have for John over the things he did to you. Because I'm not the one who hurt you, and no matter what he's done, he could never take away how beautiful you are to me."

Brushing my palm over his smooth cheek, I shake my head. "So don't worry for a second over thinking you aren't attractive to me."

He gapes at me for a long time, as if he can't believe or accept that I'd still feel this way after learning about how John abused him.

My hand slips lower, fingertips grazing over his neck and shoulder, further down the length of his torso to rest finally on a sharp, bony hip. Still gazing deeply into his eyes, I squeeze him reassuringly.

And as tears spill over onto his cheeks and the pillow supporting his head, he suddenly blurts out shakily, "You've asked me before, when we were still meeting at the pub, how and when I lost my virginity. D'you remember that?"

I blink back at him, startled by this abrupt shift in conversation, and the seemingly random point at which his apparently wandering mind has stopped.

I nod. "Y-Yeah..."

"And d'you remember my answer?"

I shrug, shaking my head helplessly. "You were uncomfortable telling me. You didn't want to talk about it – just like you avoided talking about anything that involved your past..."

He nods, sniffling faintly. "Did that bother you, that I wouldn't say?"

I consider his question, recalling clearly how perplexed I'd been over his staunchly sealed lips, either out of shame or some sense that he thought his own life was too precious to be revealed; or maybe he didn't think I was worthy enough to know.

"I guess," I admit reluctantly. "I was a bit hurt that I'd trusted you with all there is to know about me, but you wouldn't talk about your own experiences... but then, I figured you must have had your reasons to stay so private. And since you were respectful enough not to go prying when I didn't feel comfortable talking about my drug addiction, I figured I could do you the same courtesy..."

He winces, as if it's painful to think about, and then goes on in his trembling voice, "It's not that I didn't think you were good enough to know, Ted. Really. It was more like... the very same reason you _couldn't_ talk about your drug problem. I was ashamed... embarrassed... because none of it was... like most other people's experiences... and I didn't want to ruin the mood of your stories with my own... my own negative ones."

I squint at him, trying to work out what he's getting at...

And then he's closing his eyes again, forcing the words out past a reflexive urge to keep his shame hidden deep inside.

"I only loved one person in my life – _really_ loved, I mean. But my mum died when I was still very young. So all I had of her growing up were vague memories of someone who only ever loved me purely, unconditionally, and the piano she'd let me play on since... well, further back than I can even remember. Dad had been married twice before her, but she was the only one who had had his child – and then went and died on him. And she was the first one who he... took years to get over well enough before he remarried again. But I guess by then, after losing the only woman who he'd actually _loved_, he'd stopped caring so much. So when it was more convenient for him to be with someone who willingly supported the drinking he'd taken up, he took the chance.

"My stepmother already had five children – all several years older than me. The youngest was fourteen when I was eight, and we had to share a room together. I never really liked him, but the other two kids who lived with us were older twin girls who needed their privacy, so she said. So I was lumped in with him. He disliked me as well, and for the first few years we all lived together, he constantly teased and bullied me – perhaps more than typical kids would, but still nothing too ... horrendous...

"Then he got this girlfriend when he was sixteen, and he was always out with her, so I didn't have to put up with him as much. His mum was a nag to him that year, always yellin' at him to be careful and stuff. I was ten, I thought, you know, she meant with, like, driving round in cars and such. I didn't know..."

Matty pauses, his face twisting into a furious, helpless look of anguish. "I didn't want to tell you... to say it because I thought you'd think I was... weird... But honestly, I lost it when I was ten – and it wasn't because I was... curious or wanted to. His girlfriend ditched him, and they'd been shagging constantly, so I guess he just felt, like... desperate or somethin'... So he had me instead after she told him to fuck off... and for some reason, he got to... to like it or somethin'... 'cos he kept doin' it... An' he... he made me promise not to tell... Said he'd be nicer to me if I didn't tell no one... For a while, he was, too – bought me candies, stopped teasin' me in front of 'is mates... He even offered to take me along when he went to hang out with them and no one could look after me...

"But then he really hurt me one night... I had these bruises on my arms – he didn't know his own strength, I guess, or didn't think I'd bruise so easily... An' someone at school noticed 'em and asked me about them. I didn't know what to say... So there was this whole mess between the school and home, and the teacher accused my stepmother of hitting me. She had it out with me later, and I just... I ended up shouting at her that her son was the one doing it – that he was doing stuff to me at night. She was furious with me, and from then on acted like I didn't exist. My dad... I thought surely _he_ would help me, but he only told me to stop telling stories... My stepbrother didn't care that no one believed me – he used the fact that I'd said something to his mum as a reason to start treating me horribly again.

"The school got nothing done about it – probably because I'd never given them anymore reasons to, being too afraid of him to, like, fully explain anythin'. So I just... I just kept taking it – him fucking me at night and bullying me during the day... even when the bullying turned into full-on _beatings_. I couldn't stop him, and I guess I just learned that not responding at all made him stop sooner. God... I even tried to get on with him at one point, trying to hang out with him and his mates from school and work. But it only ended up with him leading me on to believe we were all right... then having his mates tear me down with all the same stupid comments about being too girly... making fun of me for it – but then turning it around as an excuse for using me like a... like a fucking... and I _let_ them! I was so desperate to make things easier that after the first time they forced me to, I would _let_ them do it! Just so I wouldn't have to get beaten... How disgusting is that!?"

Matty wipes at his face, his hands still trembling, and opens his eyes again – unable to look at me. He stares blankly at my chest, his other hand gripping my shirt in a tight fist.

"By the time I was sixteen, I already knew what I was, had known for a while, though none of it had to do with my stepbrother or his friends... I had to admit, some of them weren't _so_ bad at it. As long as I shut my eyes and pretended to be with a man I found attractive, it was all right."

He lets out a small, bitter chuckle, smiling deliriously. "Still, of all the men who could have molested me, of all the guys in the world I wouldn't have minded getting fucked by, it had to be the ones I _didn't_ have a hint of liking for, eh? That's what I found _most_ unfortunate about all of it..."

His dark humor subsiding, he goes on quietly as I stay silent, watching him with a sympathetic gaze.

"Then I met John... well, hardly _met_ him – he was my teacher when I was sixteen. I just had a typical – or, I guess _a_typical, in my case – teenage crush on my literature teacher. He'd only been at the school for a few years. I was in his sixth class. He says he noticed me the first day too, which was why he assigned me a seat right in front of his desk for the entire year. But nothing happened until more than halfway through. I guess he liked the things I wrote whenever we had a creative writing assignment. He asked me to stay after a few times, under the guise that he had to give me some kind of extra lessons... Of course, I was terrified, thought I'd, like, embarrass myself by getting an erection from the start or something...

"Really, we just talked a bit. He said I was a gifted writer, that I should pursue it... I kind of... vaguely hinted that the stuff I wanted to write about, only certain people would want to read – certainly nothing to live off of. He asked me about other interests, and I told him about my piano playing, showed him some pictures I'd drawn... Then he asked me about the reputation I had amongst the older crowd – the kids he'd taught when he'd first started there... I realized he meant my stepbrother and his mates, all those older guys who'd used me before... The rumors they'd spread about me – many of which were, well... _true_, much to their girlfriends' horror...

"I just started crying when he brought it up, simply mortified that he _knew_ about it. I tried to leave, but he stopped me...

"Next thing I knew, he was... he was kissing me... I was so shocked – but I... I felt like... it was both right and wrong at the same time. And like with my stepbrother, I didn't know what to do. So I just went with it. For the rest of the year, I just... let him love me – because it was the first time I wasn't just shagged and tossed aside with disgust. He truly _loved_ me.

"Before I knew it, I was clinging to him more than I'd ever clung to anyone else but my mother. He realized I was... helpless without him. He was the only person who had shown me any sign of true affection in years – even my school friends never knew me well enough to know anything I dealt with regularly at home. I told him of my family – my uncaring stepmum and my alcoholic dad who turned a blind eye, my stepbrother and the things he did to me. I told him how they'd tried to institutionalize me the year before when I'd lost it enough to freak out one day – the day I learned that my stepbrother wasn't going to _finally_ go off to university like he'd been planning for the last three years. I thought I'd be rid of him finally, and when they said he'd changed his mind _again_ and would be there another _year_, I went mental. And they tried to put me away, said I was crazy, had me psychologically tested for all these things... Bloody bastards just said I was suffering from stress! But I guess I didn't help, still being too afraid to tell the doctors what he did... They'd only say I was lying again anyway.

"The year I graduated, John was offered a job at a university as a professor of literature, and of course he took it. I was devastated that he was going to leave, as I knew I would never be able to get out myself – my folks had already planned for me to start at a factory, no matter what my exam scores were, because they were saving their money to send _him_ to uni. Whenever he finally decided to _go_. He was a hard worker, they said, not some daydreaming pianist who lived so deeply in fiction that he'd begun believing his own lies...

"When John said he would take me with him, I _cried_, I was so happy. So of course, I went with him..."

Matty pauses again, this time to cover his face with his hands, pressing his forehead into my chest. His words come out muffled, but I can still understand him.

"And when I realized I couldn't make it without him... he turned on me... suddenly saying all the same things they'd told me before – that I was weak, useless, a waste of time, only good for one thing... He used the horrible reputation I'd made for myself in our old town to justify calling me a slut and the like, saying I wasn't allowed to deny it since he knew I'd done those things with my stepbrother and his mates – used it as a reason to need to keep me in line so I wouldn't go cheating on him or running off with someone. He used all my weaknesses and my faults to manipulate me into feeling like I deserved everything he gave me, from being ignorant to common daily tasks, to the things I'd done with the older boys in Cambridge. I tried to comfort myself by developing my interests on my own, but whenever he caught me, he'd only criticize it and call me a pitiful amateur, saying my parents were smart to not waste money on me. After several years of that, I'd had enough – so I tried to leave."

Hearing of John's reaction to Matty's first attempt to walk out, and the results of his anger, make my insides go cold. More accurately, it makes me even more tense than I already am over hearing about his well-checkered past. As the thought in the back of my head nags, "No wonder he didn't want to tell me anything," my own voice squeaks out, "You said he doesn't know anything about me, right?"

At this need for reassurance, Matty informs me, "I said your name by mistake once... That thing I do when I need to pretend someone else is shaggin' me – I, um... I guess I got too into it that time, and I said your name. But that's all he knows. Well, and that you're American, but that wasn't from me..."

I should be more worried about the chance that John could go to Judy's bar and ask who "Ted" is; I should pray that she'll be quick enough to know not to blurt out, "He's the American bloke who lives over in that building..."

Instead, I indulge my ego a bit and ask with a small, secret grin, "You imagined it was me?"

"To get aroused enough to give him what he wanted, yeah."

I bury my face in his hair, feeling guilty for getting so much pleasure from this thought. "Me? To get _aroused?_"

"Yes," he chuckles through his tears. "_You_."

I groan and mutter against his scalp, "That shouldn't make me so happy... I _should_ feel disturbed that you tried to imagine _me_ raping you--"

He shakes his head fervently. "No, no – I only use that to make it feel like it _isn't_... rape. 'Cos if I get into it, he... lightens up a bit..."

I nod my understanding, noticing finally that, while he was speaking, I was unconsciously wrapping his vulnerable form into my arms protectively. I loosen my hold slightly, afraid of smothering him, but he tenses immediately.

"So," he says, his voice quivering again. "After all that... d'you think... you're not repulsed by me still?"

I pause, considering all the disturbing things he's told me. But it doesn't take me long at all to decide – especially when I look down to see him meeting my gaze with hopeful, tearful eyes, biting his lip anxiously.

I smirk and tighten my grip again, glad to feel the tension leaking from his muscles when I pull him closer.

"You're still Matty," I tell him confidently. "I think those guys in Cambridge were just too weak and afraid of the whole _gay_ thing to admit you turned them on 'cos you were hot even as a teenager. And I think your stepbrother was a jumbled mess of confused and demented hormones for using you when you were so young. I think you must've taken after your mother when it comes to intelligence and talent – which, in a way, could also explain why your father became so apathetic after losing her. But that doesn't excuse him becoming so uncaring that he disregarded _you_. And I think John only degraded you so much because he was insecure – because he saw that talent in you for what it was, was afraid of your beauty, because he _knew_ that if he ever let you know how amazing you truly are, he would've lost you even sooner than he did. Whether it was to another man, or just to your own awareness that you _are_ good enough and strong enough to be successful and independent – he wouldn't have been able to keep you as long as he did."

A long, slightly awkward pause, then, "Do _you_ think you'll lose me if I believe all that?"

I sigh, closing my eyes. "I'm sure you could do a lot better than me – but I'd never hold you down to keep you here."

"Why?"

An innocent question. But integral as well. Because the answer is what separates John and myself from each other.

"Well... because... you just aren't supposed to selfishly cling to someone you love, no matter how badly you feel you _need_ to be with them – something about them draws you to them, and if you stifle that to keep them close, then you're not loving them. You're just _owning_ them. And you're not a possession to be owned. You're someone who deserves to be happy."

I feel a rustle against my chest, and I open my eyes to see him propped up on his elbow, looking down at me quite seriously – and fondly.

"You really mean that?"

I nod, swallowing hard. I know he's not about to stand up and march straight out the door into a brand new life free of people who lie and use him – even if he would, I wouldn't stop him. But I can't deny that I'm intimately familiar with the sensations John has undoubtedly felt for years over this kid.

So I'm relieved when all he does is lean over and kiss me, without a word, without another question or endearment. And then he settles back into my arms comfortably.

And declares, "I _will_ make you shag me before you leave, Teddy. That's a promise."

At his words, I'm startled – but his tone only makes me giggle with hope. "Sounds more like a threat to me."


	12. Chapter 12 Taste In Men

Warning: this one gets pretty smutty.

12 - Taste In Men

_Matty_:

As kind and generous as Ted is being to me, letting me eat his food, sleep in his bed, wear his clothes – there simply remains the fact that I have almost nothing of my own with me anymore. It may sound foolish, but he's done so much for me already that I can't possibly let him do something as drastic as buying me a whole new wardrobe. Besides, where would I put it? I've already screwed myself out of a job and a place to live after he leaves... but maybe there's some unspoken hope in me that somewhere along the line, he'll ask me to go back with him.

Of course this hope is fueled by the fact that I glance over his shoulder one night when he's _supposed_ to be working and catch him on some site involving immigration... but I don't say anything, not wanting to just assume...

Still, by now he still has at least a month left to go of this business trip, and I honestly don't feel worthy of staining every last one of his white undershirts with my clumsy spills. (I wasn't lying before – I _can_ be quite a klutz sometimes... for some odd reason, I'm able to do complicated things that require a certain amount of grace and agility – when I'm drunk. But sober, I'll walk into doorframes and can't for the life of me tie a cherry stem into a knot with my tongue... Perhaps if I became an alcoholic, I could be a world-class male ballerina... or would that make me a baller_ino_? I'll never know the proper grammar to these great mysteries of life...)

Still, when I _do_ bring up my severe lack of belongings (aside from a small bundle of clothes he got me the other week, which I yelled at him for, spending his money on me like that...) one night in bed, he simply says we'll have to find a way back into my apartment to get my things... and the thought of going back there makes me shudder noticeably enough that he tightens his arms around me, reassuring me that he'll of course go with me, just to be safe.

But even the thought of _him_ being in that place fills me with dread. Whether or not it takes very little time for me to toss some clothes and notebooks into a bag, just going back there at all and seeing the familiar rooms, remembering how John tried so desperately to keep me there, remembering each and every incident – at least the times I _can_ remember, when I somehow remained conscious through it all and the incidents lingered in my memories stubbornly... as opposed to the times I simply folded under the stress and passed out.

It's all I can do to keep the bile from rising in my throat. And to think of Ted seeing that place, seeing where it all happened... even if he can't see inside my mind to witness the actual events, it's still too close to reality for comfort.

Even worse, Ted insists we should go to the bank where the money is kept and find out how to go about getting me some cash that John has no doubt been hiding from me.

That was one shocking aspect to my virtual captivity I hadn't counted on: on a Saturday afternoon, Ted suggested we go to this university where John works and find out which gallery he had supposedly sold some of my paintings to. I hadn't honestly believed that John had ever been successful, really, because he'd only take a piece I'd done and I'd never see it again. I truly had this image in my head of a dank classroom where he lectured, maybe a small corner of an office, cluttered with various works I'd gotten rid of over the years to his critical hands, actually buying his words when he insisted he may not get much for it but it was worth a shot. If anything ever _had_ sold, I was sure it was nothing worth mentioning – because _he_ always failed to mention anything more to _me_ concerning their whereabouts.

Going to the university on the weekend was smart, I said, because he only taught during the week, but there were some multiple-hour classes that ran then, so there would still be faculty and staff around to question. To both my _and _Ted's surprise, it was much easier than we had imagined: we managed to catch a very uniquely dressed gentleman just as his painting class was being dismissed, and I probably looked like an upcoming student for the following term, because I drew no awkward stares as I approached him and asked timidly if he knew of any local art galleries where one would be able to exhibit their work for sale.

He promptly directed us to a building mere blocks from the campus, whose name sounded distinctly familiar. We went without hesitation and the owner of the gallery was in, and when I told him my name, he instantly recognised me – and began spewing all this crap about my work to me, how it was some kind of honor to be the middleman for getting my stuff to the public. Needless to say, though it baffled me, he was more than happy to welcome me and Ted into his private office for a chat.

To my utter astonishment, I came to discover that John _had_, in fact, sold my paintings to the gallery, and the gallery had then successfully sold them off to rather wealthy or just plain earnest individuals who took to the pictures I'd so carelessly tossed aside because of some comment John had made to disqualify it from my mind as "worthy."

Every... single... one of them. And not just for what _I_ had considered to be a fair price.

Eight thousand pounds in total, he told me as he checked his log.

Eight thousand pounds... which I had never seen one penny of.

Eight thousand... pounds... Eight... fucking _thousand_...

Thankfully, Ted was right there to catch me when I nearly went into a dead faint.

Of course the owner was wondering why I was there asking about my sold works, and not John himself, and I was at a loss to explain why I was so shocked by the amount I had already allegedly been paid. Luckily, seeing my flubbed mouth having difficulty working out a reasonable answer, as my mind was still trying to process the numerics of the situation, Ted stepped in and made up some story about him being our accountant and needing copies of any transactions for tax purposes.

I didn't know what to think as Ted cast me a sneaky look whilst the guy obliged his request, but he must have had something like a plan forming in that brilliant brain about how to get me access to my money.

Left alone in the owner's office when he went to copy the paperwork, Ted turned to me and asked, "You're sure you never had an idea about what happened to them all? He never said anything to you or had you look at anything, sign anything official?"

My clueless shrug seemed to be all he needed to smile smugly to himself and sit back in his chair easily, leaving me lost and oblivious to whatever he was thinking.

When the gallery man finally returned, Ted looked over the papers quickly with a concentrated look which he got whenever he was working at the computer at home, before filing it away in his ever-present backpack, which just happened to look as professional as his typical briefcase. Then he acted all proper and accountant-like and polite, shaking the man's hand and thanking him for his time and such. On our way out, he held the door open for me and mumbled in my ear that he'd explain it all later.

What he told me in the car on the way home surprised me – apparently, probably years back when John and I first moved to the area, he must have opened a joint account between us, under both his and my own name. I recalled, at Ted's urging, signing several things back then, like the lease on the apartment, and certainly something like that could have been amongst the lot, which John would merely shove under my nose and point, saying, "Sign," and I would obey. Because I had no clue about official stuff like that – I was hopeless when it came to those things.

"Probably only because he kept you ignorant so you wouldn't start to suspect," Ted assumed, a look of disdain on his face. "It's not your fault – I'm sure you'd be able to work it all out for yourself if you had the time to study it, but you say he never even let you see your pay stubs when they come in – so why would he let you see bank statements either? It makes perfect sense, since he was controlling everything in your life to the point where you were afraid to leave the apartment without his approval."

Ted was right, of course; John had never shown me any statements or cheques – in fact, he refused to allow me access to the mail key, so that he would be the one to get whatever came to us. I had never even seen the identifying numbers for this supposed joint account we shared. I never had any cheques from work to endorse because they had all been electronically deposited, which had required only one signature from me back when I'd first been hired. But then, with all the paperwork that goes with getting hired, John had – of _course_ – "taken care of" all that himself too, only telling me where to sign when it was needed. And that had given my employers the ability to send my hard-earned virtual cash to the bank... but it had always been given to me at small intervals, certainly not the proper amount I'd earned, by John's hand, and only when he deemed it appropriate. Though I had been working steadily at a full-time job for the past six years, I'd been living on an allowance since I was eighteen... even _after_ getting the job.

Likewise, though the money from the paintings was rightfully _mine_, all John had had to do was give the owner the account number to deposit the money, and he could do whatever he'd wanted with it.

Luck was on my side, though, because the owner had kept records of all the transactions, as he did with every artist whose work he'd sold, and that all-important account number I'd never known before was right there on the paperwork. Now, Ted told me, all I had to do was go into the bank and sign a slip of paper on which I would write that number, and I could find out just how much money John and I had together. And then, he said, he would leave it up to me to decide how much of that I felt I rightfully owned for myself.

Blimey. It all sounded so simple. Yet as I sat there staring at the papers in my hands, I felt so small and insignificant. So stupid and gullible. I had the chance to possibly request for most of that cash to be counted out into my grubby little mitts... and here, all I felt was complete and utter... _anger_.

At a rather heartfelt outburst of a curse, Ted stayed silent, perhaps seeing the disbelief and shock in my face when he glanced over at me quickly before turning back to the road. Eyes plastered to the paper, my key to financial stability in first starting out "on my own," I held a hand to my mouth and anxiously chewed at my trembling knuckles, simply because there was nothing else I could do to express the fury inside of me.

I was grateful that Ted didn't make a move to stop my unconscious habit, nor did he force me to speak up about all the things going through my head – which was fortunate for him as well, since I had no idea how to properly put it all into such menial terms as I had at my disposal.

Eleven years. Eleven _fucking_ years. And all I'd needed were these simple little fucking numbers. This was only one way he'd managed to keep me so tethered to him, but it was a pretty goddamn big one. Kept me blind and stupid so he could hold that power over me, could keep me needy and helpless... All those times he'd called me such things, and I'd felt pathetic for it – but he'd _liked_ me that way, he'd _wanted_ me to stay like that. So that I would have to rely on him for everything. Tricking me, using me, purposefully sustaining my ignorance to such trivial things such as this, things everyone else knew about like it was simply inherent to our species or something...

I couldn't keep from feeling so bloody stupid, even if I knew logically in my head that it had been John who had refrained from allowing me to be educated on these common aspects of life.

Apart from that... the _lying_... the complete _degradation_ he'd put me through, acting as if it was a last resort to try and sell any of my oh-so-supposedly-flawed works for a bit of cash, like it would be a miracle if we managed to get a few quid that was barely worth more than the canvas they were painted on...

I dropped my hands into my lap and gaped at Ted's profile, his words reverberating in my head.

_"...John only degraded you so much because he was so insecure – because he saw that talent in you for what it was... if he ever let you know how amazing you truly are, he would've lost you..."_

I let out a bewildered, bitter laugh, shaking my head mournfully.

"What?" Ted asked, catching my eye vaguely.

I smirked to myself, leaning forward to hold my head in my hands. I couldn't believe my realisation... I'd thought of it, had suspected it all along, but had never actually _known_... Had even begun to doubt my own instincts...

"They were... good," I murmured in my bafflement, my voice strained.

He tilted his head toward me. "What's that?"

Sitting back again with a sigh, I raked my hands through my hair and stared up at the sky through the closed car window. It was gray out, but it always seemed to be. For the first time, though, it finally occurred to me that behind the dismal clouds, the sun was still shining despite the smothering atmosphere above us.

"My paintings. They were... They were really... good." I sounded as if I'd never seen them before myself, and was enraptured by the sight of these pieces I'd tossed away to him without a second thought as each one ticked by like a mental slideshow. The memories of each one were crystal clear, and suddenly seeing them with my mind's eye, and the proof of just _how much _they had been worth to these absolute strangers who bought them resting right under my nose in my lap...

I let out another laugh, a bit shrill and emotional, and glanced over at Ted.

His face looked bright, a small, content smile on his lips as he reached over and patted my leg assuringly.

"I'll bet they were. I wish I could've seen them myself, but... I believe you."

The spinning sensations inside me finally began to dissolve, and in that moment, when he said those _other_ three little words I've longed to hear all my life – especially after being told off for being a supposed "liar" so many times – I chose to remain positive instead of spiraling down into the possible madness that threatened to overwhelm my brain with regret and anger. Sitting back and relaxing in my seat, I took Ted's hand and squeezed – of course he believed me. He had since he'd met me, even the times when I let him down, and he kept doing it after those disappointments as well.

When someone you love and respect believes in you, I decided, it was worth far more than all the hurt and betrayal in the world from someone who only used you, only wasted your life on trivial longings to hold onto you. John had broken me time and again, my body and mind, my hopes and dreams, my wishes to be special in some way... He'd tried to ruin it all for me, just to make sure I didn't leave him, and he'd succeeded for years.

But when it matters – when the things I truly long for are shown to be possibilities for me at last, I begin to feel so much lighter. All because Ted simply coaxes and urges me to do as I please, to take a risk and get onstage, to see the monetary reward for simply drawing a physical expression of my inner world... and the more he lets me go, the more I feel like I'm actually flying, cheesy as it sounds. Like I _can_ do these things. Like I _am_ someone special. And, somehow, his letting go makes me want to _stay_ with him more. I can _breathe_ when I'm with him.

For all the paintings I've done and all the complex pieces I can play, I realised, as I gazed over to him and saw the blissful look on his face, that Ted has an artist's spirit too. The way he treats me, the way he loves me, the way he takes care of me – that's an artform he's perfected. And I can only feel my initially grateful admiration for the self-proclaimed "boring geek with no fashionable taste" grow into an impassioned ardor even I wasn't aware I was capable of.

But then, these last several weeks, I've had a remarkable teacher.

_Ted:_

Later on Saturday evening, Matty curls up on the couch with his head in my lap while I sip on red wine and try to figure out how to comfort him. I do feel a bit guilty myself, having given him such hope for the possibility of never having to risk facing John again, but stark reality hit us both when I mentioned giving some kind of proof of identity when we go to get his money out of the bank – and he reminded me somberly that he had been so desperate and anxious that night to escape, not to mention weak, that he hadn't taken anything with him.

No wallet, no money, no clothes, no notebooks – just himself and the torn, bloodied clothes he'd managed to pull on in a blind and painful haste. Recently, he's been wearing my own clothes, though I'd been thoughtful enough during the first week to stop off at various local shops to grab a few necessities, like boxers and a toothbrush, deodorant and such. He thanked me those times – but the day I cam ehome with a few pairs of loose pants and some cheap unicolored shirts (and the bell!), he scolded me for buying him that much. Not even my assurance that they were clearance items was enough to get me off the hook. (But then I simply fussed, after he made his mess all over my undershirt, that I didn't want him spilling more soup on all my clothes – that shut him up quick.)

Hence, the only solution is to go back to the apartment. I try to remind him that John works late so there's almost no chance at all of seeing him if we go as soon as I get home from work. He admits this is true, but I get the feeling it's not just John himself Matty is afraid of – certainly the idea of returning to the place at all, seeing the remains of the old life he's willingly left behind, is a daunting one. In a way, I suppose it's like – or actually _is_ – a victim returning to the scene of a crime.

But he needs identification, even just for the chance that he gets a new job. And his notebooks are filled with works I couldn't imagine ever leaving behind for good, had they been my own – all that effort, wasted on a selfish prick with no respect for his own lover. And, like it or not, he needs _his_ clothes – they might fit him better than the oversized tee's I got him.

Especially that tight red one. He _needs_ that one.

Matty isn't digesting this disappointment very well, it seems. He's been very quiet since we got home from the university, took to the bedroom to rest, and "scribble" in the notebook I'd brought him, for a few hours while I worked, then came to relax with me on the couch when he emerged (in just boxers and a t-shirt, I couldn't help but notice lewdly) to find me taking a break. I ask if he wants me to put some music on, but he doesn't feel like listening to anything specific right now, so I don't bother. Instead, I merely stroke his hair as he rests on my lap, enjoying the calm and listening to the silence, interrupted only vaguely with the nearly inaudible sighs of his breathing.

When I suspect he's fallen asleep, I set my glass aside and try to make a move to life him so I can carry him in to bed. But the moment I do, he turns around to peer up at me, fully awake and alert, shifting his entire body so that he's on his back.

Watching me with dark, glassy eyes – which I initially mistake for sad and tearful – he asks me softly, "How long has it been since you were with someone?"

I blink down at him, not entirely sure of the nature of his question. "Um... do you mean... like, in a relationship?"

"Your ex, Blake – was he the last person you slept with?"

I raise my eyebrows; after all his polite non-pushiness, and my constantly putting him on the spot regardless of that respect toward me, he's now exacting his revenge on me...

"Well... um..."

Instead of waiting for an answer, though, he suddenly turns again, onto his belly, and pushes himself to his knees. I keep my eyes trained on him, admiring the way his hair brushes seductively over one eye as he moves.

Then, with no explanation and no real warning, Matty shifts again – this time, sliding a bent leg over my own, twisting so he's facing me, ending up straddled in my lap, dangerously close, I note, to a specific area that could very well become not a very smart place for him to be right now...

I gaze up at him in surprise, uttering, "What're you do--"

But he cuts me off by shushing me as he lifts his arms, resting them around my shoulders, and comes eye-level with me.

Mere inches in front of me, his dark blue eyes are close enough for me to take a deeper study of them, and I realize my mistake – those aren't tears of frustration or despair, and the dilated pupils aren't cloudy from fear of considering the trip back to his old apartment. The flutter of his long lashes isn't a sign of weariness either.

He isn't thinking about the potential physical or emotional traumas of going to John's; Matty has something entirely different on his mind – and probably has, I wonder suddenly, all afternoon. And I was too oblivious and focused on the upcoming "problems" we face with getting him sorted that I didn't even _notice_...

Goddamn, I'm an idiot! All those surreptitious glances he'd given me in the car on the way home, that sweet voice sighing that he'd be in the bedroom for a bit – and stupid me, I was out here toiling away at fucking _work_ while he probably drew erotic pictures in the notebook and tried to figure out a way to come on to me...

So I guess he finally settled on the direct approach.

Lost for words, I can't even find the strength to respond when he leans in to kiss me – well, "kiss" is a very loose term; he starts out by grazing his lips against my partially open mouth, then lets his tongue dart out to gently trace my own lips. He nibbles slightly on the lower one, suckling it as I feel his eyelashes brush over my cheek. Barely breathing, eyes half-lidded and watching his slightly obscured face, I sit limply and immobile, struck dumb by his brave initiation of what he used to have to reluctantly part with me from.

He wanders gradually away from my mouth, leaving tiny pecks along my jawline as his fingers stroke the back of my head, urging me to turn ever so slightly, until I feel the tip of that warm tongue dragging gingerly over the shell of my ear. This sends a small shudder through me, and in an instant, the familiar aching pleasure begins reasserting itself in my groin while my gut tenses with twinges of anticipation. My breath comes to me shakily as he explores all the overly sensitive areas of my ear with a startlingly knowledgeable mouth – but then, I'm only going on the little sexual contact we've had between us so far to judge. As much as it pained him to talk about, and as disturbing a story as his past was, I can't very well deny the fact that this boy has had plenty of experience – and the proof is in this moment, how easily he changes me from pontificating worrywart to subdued and aroused lover with a mere flick of his tongue and flutter of eyelids.

Then again, it could also be his perfectly shaped little ass pressing eagerly into my thighs – but even if it isn't, that certainly helps.

Finally, as his mouth moves further down to my neck and playfully nips me, my body springs to life and I lift my arms, wrapping them loosely around his small waist. He takes this as a positive sign and nudges forward a bit more in my lap. My hands make their way to his hips, slipping underneath the loose t-shirt to caress his soft skin, and he pauses in his neck-nuzzling to sigh quietly at my touch.

I take that chance to tilt my own head sideways, gliding my tongue over the base of his throat and upwards, and his body returns my previous quiver of approval, causing his hips to buck forward even more to press against my abdomen. I immediately feel the heat of his arousal pushing into me wantonly, and I only increase his urge by trailing my fingertips lightly over his spine, dragging them up and down, then lower, probing firmly into his tailbone as they slip under the waistband of his boxers. He whimpers mildly into my neck, letting his head droop onto my shoulder as I tease him further with my tongue lapping at his apparent weak spot, just below his jaw on his throat. I dare to graze my teeth along the entire length of his throat, and I'm rewarded with a clear gasp and tensing of every muscle – and I realize that he is ridiculously sensitive all along this part of his body; it would certainly explain his usual ticklish reactions when I would be in a more playful mood, but now only proves to be a sensual advantage to me.

Even though he's the one who initiated this little make-out session, he's quickly transformed into putty in my possessive hands, tilting his head back and moaning helplessly as I switch my head the opposite way and go for his throat again. Taking the other side greedily in my mouth, I let my daring fingers sink lower, until I've got both round, warm cheeks palmed, and his arms strain to pull himself closer to rub against me – the barely-there contact sending my brain into a tailspin as I faintly feel his hard-on pulsing against my belly through the thin fabric of his boxers and my shirt.

He gropes at my shoulders, pulling and tugging at the material, trying to ease it off my build with little success. I finally draw back from his neck to oblige his need, and allow him to tug the shirt off over my head, tossing it aside carelessly as he returns to placing hot, moist kisses over my own warming skin. His hands slide down to my chest, and I find myself becoming breathless as I merely watch him fold in slightly on himself to let his lips follow the trail of his fingertips. I watch his cute lips glide over my chest to stop at my nipple, his quick little tongue sneaking out to trace around it before flicking it tantalizingly, sending waves of pleasure through me – both from the feeling itself, _and_ watching him do it, that gorgeous absorbed expression making him look hypnotized by his evidently raging hormones.

I groan deep in my throat as I see and feel him start to nip at it, suckling gently, as his other hand works the opposite nipple into a hardened nub. Still flexing my fingers around his ass, I notice that I've unconsciously started rocking my hips, and his body is responding perfectly in rhythm to mine. I can feel my cock growing into a fiercely hard erection, cruelly trapped within the confines of my pants. The friction of the underside of his half-naked thighs chafing my aching arousal is almost too much to bear, and I clench my fingers forcefully, brutally squeezing his ass – but this, luckily, doesn't seem to harm him, just makes him moan again, his hips swiveling in such a sexy, needy fashion that I feel myself pushing up against him to try and draw more attention to my own needs. But he's still having too much fun worshiping my chest with that lovely mouth to stop and relieve me elsewhere.

Finally, he pulls away from my chest, casting me a heated stare with his head still lowered, and then starts to lift himself from my lap. I try to protest, even tightening my grip on his deliciously firm backside, but he only smiles coyly at me and reaches behind himself to take my wrists, easing my hands out of his shorts. He sets them by my sides, and without an explanation, slithers off my lap. Eyes locked with mine, ignoring my obvious disappointment, and the sneaky smile still on his red lips, he kneels down in front of me and reaches for my zipper.

Slowly, my staggering, lust-filled mind registers what he wants to do, and I unintentionally let out a hard, heavy breath. Still refusing to look away from my gaze, he easily undoes my pants, and at his unspoken request, I find myself obediently lifting off the couch momentarily for him to slide them over my hips, down my legs, soon joining the tossed shirt to the side.

Now naked and exposed on this rented plush sofa, I sit and regard him dazedly as his eyes finally break from mine to sweep over my body, taking me in – and, to my shock, he doesn't flinch or look repulsed at all. Instead, the small smile on his face changes from decidedly wicked to timidly sweet, and he rests his hands on my knees, placing his chin on top and lifting his focus to mine again.

"See?" he says quietly. "I told you I liked your body." And he lifts his chin in order to slide his long fingers up my muscular thighs, not stopping until he reaches my hips. He allows one hand to wander a bit lower for a brief moment, brushing his knuckles over my erection purposefully. I take in a hissing breath through my teeth, letting it out as a grunt as he repeats this gesture a few times – touching, but not _quite_, driving me crazy inside my filthy mind, which is instantly filled with all the lurid, lewd things I want to do to him... if not for payback, then just for my own pleasure...

He finally takes pity on me and ceases his teasing. Instead, he envelopes what he can of my thighs in his hands and urges me to open them. Slowly, he maneuvers himself between my spread legs, taking hold of my hips again – and proceeds to taunt me some more with thick, gradual kisses along my abdomen and the tops of my thighs – completely bypassing the aching boner staring him right in the face.

My groans and pants, as my head lolls around on my neck, must finally wear him down – or maybe it's my shameless begging of, "Please, Matty – _please_... At least _touch_ me, for fuck's sake..." Because, at last, he gives me a flash of that conniving grin before he focuses his attention on my swollen member, running his fingertips down the length of it to the base before encircling it in his fingers and stroking it once – twice – three full times to make me gasp and clench my hands into fists on the couch cushions beside me.

He lowers his head, bringing it to his mouth, and lightly grazes the head with just his lips, licking the precum from them before glancing up at me with a saucy look. Then, in the next second, I'm moaning loudly to the ceiling, my head having fallen back, as my throbbing cock is enveloped by the soft, moist heat of his mouth – lips tight around my shaft, surprisingly strong tongue lapping at and massaging the full length, teeth occasionally scraping pleasurably over the hot, firm but soft flesh. He takes his time after gulping me down one full time at first, starting near the tip and working his way deliberately down to the base, licking and suckling the whole way. I can't keep my hands from groping for him, and they latch onto his head, soft locks of beautiful ebony tickling my fingers as they entwine in his hair.

After a few painfully good, long swallows, he starts a steady rhythm with his head and hands, sucking and tugging at me until I'm bucking my hips, mesmerized by the overwhelming sensations of him: his active, slippery tongue, his hot, wet mouth, his small, sharp teeth and soft, firm lips. But especially that startlingly talented throat – he _must_ have been trained for this, I think blindly, unbelieving even as I look down and watch it happening (and my God, what a sight it is to see him sucking me off), when that gag reflex seems suddenly non-existent and he takes me in fully, deep-throating me with a muffled moan, sending vibrations of pure ecstasy from my cock throughout my groin and abdomen, sparks of white hot pleasure permeating all of my senses with his impressive ability. I throw my head back again and cry out passionately, my legs automatically spreading wider and fingers clawing at his hair, pulling at him urgently. He repeats the splendid move several times in succession, rendering me helpless to the euphoria of being swallowed whole and sucked dry by a welcoming, starving mouth. Before I know it, my hands are holding his head, and I've thoughtlessly taken control – and he's willingly let me – as I fuck his mouth while fountains of obscenities pour from my own, panting and heaving with the effort of reaching that ultimate height of bliss. I feel it getting closer, feel his fingers – those long, lithe, sensual fingers – caressing my back, urging me on, feel his sultry voice in my cock as I thrust in and out of his expertly learned throat...

And then I'm coming, hard and powerful enough to jerk the rest of my body back as my hips surge forward into him, freezing briefly as I feel him swallow the bitter liquid down – stunned, I suppose, that he didn't even think twice about it as he gulped my essence into himself. Another last thrust, and I shout his name as he takes the rest of me, his hold on me still tight and firm. And as I feel my cock softening in his mouth, while he continues sucking until I'm thoroughly empty, my fast breathing slowly starts to decrease, tired little sighs escaping me as I sink deeply into the couch cushions.

When Matty decides he's had his fill, he releases my satisfied cock and pulls himself up to my face, kissing me passionately as I feel my muscles melting away beneath his slight weight. He doesn't break the kiss as he crawls back into my lap, clutching me fiercely as I taste hints of myself on his tongue.

For the first time in my life, I decide it isn't that bad – but then, maybe it's just the included taste of Matty that noticeably makes everything a touch sweeter for me.

When he finally pulls back, breathless himself, I can't help but gasp, "Jesus _Christ_..."

He chuckles and wraps his arms around my neck. "Not quite – I identify more with Mary Magdalene anyway."

I stare up at his grinning mug in awe, shaking my head. "I don't think... _Fuck_... Don't think I've had a blowjob like that in... well... _ever!_"

He laughs softly and curls up against my chest, nuzzling my neck.

"Mmm... Glad to have pleased you, then."

I'm still too bewildered to make much sense yet: "Shit... Not many... even guys... that deep..."

Matty giggles again.

I glance into his face, my eyes wide with admiration. "Fuck... You give fucking amazing head – best I've ever had..."

He smirks and shrugs it off nonchalantly. "What can I say?" And his blessedly skilled mouth breaks into a silly grin. "When I say I love cock, I _mean_ it!"

"Obviously!" I groan, and close my eyes, resting my head wearily on his shoulder. "And I can say for certain that my cock loves _you_..."

"Well, good," he states, as a matter of fact. "Because I'm definitely gonna be seeing it again soon..." His beautiful, graceful hand drops to my crotch and affectionately pets my now soft member – it's almost funny, really... if not for the fact that, the second he touches me, it starts warming to his hand again, as if a dog obeying its master.

"And," he adds with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes, "I'm gonna be makin' 'im work bloody _hard_."

I scoff and pull him closer, pecking at his neck as I assure him, "It ain't _work_ if it's _hard_, babe. You'll get no complaints from me."


	13. Chapter 13 Bond

Warning: And even smuttier….

13 - Bond

_Ted:_

Slowly recovering from the result of Matty's expert display of oral talents, I conjure enough energy to stand from the couch, still clutching the curled form in my arms. In a lingering state of dazed arousal himself, he tries mildly to protest, but I won't hear a word of it as I insist on carrying him back into the bedroom without letting his feet touch the ground again. His arms locked stubbornly around my neck, he nuzzles my shoulder with soft, wordless murmurs as I gently place him on the bed, sliding in over him as I do so. I can already feel my own still-exposed body working up a continued heat from not long ago, especially when, refusing to relinquish his hold on me, he drags me halfway on top of him for a thorough kiss. I hook a leg around the one closest to me, nudging his knees apart slightly to slither my own between his thighs. A hand drapes itself over the back of my neck, fingers digging into my flesh there as his lithe form shifts and rocks against my naked torso. I drop my own fingers to a sharply jutting hip, cinching the waistband of his boxers down so I can press adequately warmed fingers over the exposed flesh. I grip him possessively in my palm, eyes becoming hazy and unfocused as I feel the roll of that bone in my hand. I don't need to touch to be aware of his own still-present erection, but I do anyway, sinking that exploring limb deep into the front of his boxers, if only to experience the slight quiver of his lips as I mold his pulsing member with curious digits.

Stroking him slowly, I relish the hushed gasps and thrusting of his pelvis as I support both him and myself with one arm, clutching his shoulder as I hunch over him, panting heavily as his body moves and reacts to mine.

Before long, my own reawakened hard-on is held firmly against the side of his thigh. His eyes closed tightly and lips parted in a blatantly erotic expression of arousal, he whimpers softly as I reach lower to fondle his balls, moving the teasing ministrations of my tongue to his overly sensitive throat. The second I begin sucking on his damp skin, he whines wantonly, "Oh God, Teddy... Fuck me, Ted, please – I... I need you... inside me... Just fuck me..."

As my cock lurches instinctively at his plea, a nagging tone of reality sets in, reminding me starkly why I should just leave the poor boy alone already.

I pause, breathing ragged, and lift my head from his neck while my slowing hand begins to tremble from my own frustrated ache.

"I... I can't," I whisper, sounding every bit as surprised as his eyes look when they fly open to gape at me.

As he's obviously lost for words when I reluctantly – _painfully_ – release my grip on him below to retrieve my hand from the loose shorts, I avert my eyes (no way in hell can I look at him and say this, when his image alone makes me envious of anyone flexible enough to suck his own cock) and mumble shamefully, "I... You're not supposed to... It's only been... a few weeks--"

Understanding quickly, his eyes flash under mine and he hisses, "I don't _care_, Teddy – I'm _fine_ – just _fuck_ me already, I know you want to--"

My head spinning from the force of my longing, combined with his overtly willing and able attitude, I close my eyes and press a palm to my forehead, groaning regretfully, "But the doctor said... six to eight weeks... at _least_..."

I feel my body being jostled almost violently and open my eyes again to see Matty jerking himself out from under me. For a split second, I'm sure he's become so enraged by my sudden ceasing of pleasuring him that he'll fly off the bed and march right out the front door.

My, how paranoid I've become – I wonder faintly if this is how it started becoming so strong an urge for John, wanting to keep Matty by his side at any cost...

But I should know better – Matty isn't one to run away, except in unusually extreme situations, like his family mistreating him (for years) and John abusing him (for years).

He only yanks himself onto his knees, ripping the white shirt over his head and discarding it quickly before locking his eyes on me.

"I think I know my body a bit better than he does," he tells me in a low voice. The graceful hands go for the now lopsided boxers barely clinging to his – _God, big mistake, Ted, you __**looked!**_ - sexy curved hips and flat belly. As I groan softly to myself at the sight of his enticing, narrow figure – fading bruises unable to deter my hunger for the sharply-shaped beauty in front of me – stripping itself nude to match my own state of undress, he gropes for one of my hands and tugs it fiercely back to his newly exposed cock.

"I may look fragile," he assures me in that husky tone as he leans in to my ear. "But I can take a hell of a lot – more than any doctor would figure."

I'm unable to respond with anything past a helpless moan as he pulls at my shoulders, urging me onto my back, and straddles my waist. My painfully hard cock brushes against a tight ass cheek and I fall back onto my elbows, staring up at the determined look on his now remarkably effeminate features as he registers the very same contact and flinches in restrained anticipation. Recovering quickly, he swallows thickly and whispers urgently into my ear, "I know what you want... I want it, too – to have you in me--" He bites his lip as he grinds his pelvis harshly into mine, drawing a breathless groan from my mouth. "Need you inside my body," he whimpers, arching his back to drag his torso along mine. I feel the distinct sensation of hardened nipples scraping softly over my chest and sigh heavily into his neck, finally relenting – at least somewhat – to his obvious distress.

"I want you in me," he states plainly, his arms enveloping my broad shoulders, fingers rasping over my sweat-slicked back. "Need you filling me... fucking me..."

I grunt with a sudden thrust of my hips as I ache to oblige his tempting request...

But the heat of this impassioned moment is too much – too much for me to bear, and (despite his claims to the contrary) truly too much for his still-recovering body.

Regaining some shred of control over myself, no matter how badly I long to hold him down and give it to him like he's begging me to, I grasp his undulating hips in my paws and cease his movements. Pulling back from him – _Fuck, __**why**__, Ted, __**why**__ are you doing this to me!?_ my libido shrieks selfishly – I breathlessly beg, "_Stop_... Matty, don't – you'll hurt yourself. Just _stop_."

It takes him a few moments, but finally, Matty comes around to the realization that I'm – in a rare twist of irony – holding _him_ away from _me_.

Matty slowly recognizes my very real protests and relaxes, his arms resting on my shoulders and his breathing regulating – even as tears of frustration fill his eyes.

"Don't you want to?" he asks, attempting to jostle me into action by pushing against me again.

"_Stop_," I order, more harshly now – and at my stern tone, he tenses, startled by my rejection of his forceful urgings.

I can't remain _so_ stoic, though, in the face of that shocked bewilderment – bordering on humiliated disappointment. He truly doesn't understand...

"Oh... You... You don't... want..." His voice is heart-breaking, so small and hurt, as if I've just told him he's as repulsive as he believes himself to be.

Nothing could be further from the truth – but the way he'd _thrown_ himself on me, that nearly robotic response to a hint of attraction...

To reassure him, I gently place a hand on the back of his head and stroke his hair, coaxing him softly, "Calm down... It's all right, you don't have to push yourself."

He closes his eyes, though a tear manages to escape, and he moans wordlessly as his head sinks to my chest.

"I just... want... I thought you wanted... I don't understand..."

"I know," I affirm, my hand gliding down his back. "But I don't want to hurt you."

He sniffles faintly, nudging back lightly against my aching erection. "I thought... you wanted me..."

"I do," I insist, kissing the top of his head. "Believe me, more than anything, I _do_... but... you're still—"

"But I _can_, Ted, I promise," he begs, almost getting caught up in the panicked emotions swirling inside him, while I struggle myself to understand why he's either full-on raging or absolutely untouchable...

Closing my own eyes, I fight inwardly with my intense longing and my equally intense logic... and in trying to find that balance, I finally reach a starkly obvious yet mind-fumbling realization. One that hits me so hard that my eyes pop open again sharply.

He must hear me gasp, because he deliberately lifts a questioning gaze up to my wide eyes.

I return the look silently, then can't help but smile weakly as I gently trail a finger over a high cheekbone.

Without having to ask, I know the answer already. So I only tell him in a throaty voice, "We _can_ do this – I won't deny you that. But... there are better ways to do it."

He blinks at me in confusion.

I don't elaborate very much, except to whisper softly against his lips as I bow my head lower, "I'm not interested in fucking you blind, Matty... _I_ want to make love to you."

He stares at me, utterly confounded, for a long, silent moment. Then asks timidly, "Th-There's... a difference?"

I raise my eyebrows at him, nodding. "Oh, yes... Definitely. There definitely _can_ be."

He swallows hard, glancing around, quite confused by this simple declaration – which he can't quite seem to get his head around.

Better than describing the minute details of emotion and careful nuances of what I've come to learn, I decide to instead _show_ him exactly what I mean.

Encircling his tiny waist in my arms, I pull him close to me – like we were before, but not quite: instead of his urgent, writhing body smashing into mine, I merely press him against my chest, taking his lips slowly with my own as I graze my fingers over his tailbone and back, kissing him deeply and languidly while simply reveling in the sensation of his warm skin.

Awkwardly, shyly, he begins opening up to me, returning the careful gesture as he explores my own mouth, his arms still linked around my shoulders. But now his fingers imitate mine as he timidly dares to touch me, actually taking in the contours of my neck and the muscles in my back.

My breaths coming slow and deep, I lead him with my gentle caresses to lift his hips, shifting him back so our hard-ons are both pressed between us, firmly joined together while not actually _being_ joined. The initial contact causes him to grunt and jut his hips forward automatically, but I catch him abruptly and stall him, shushing him soothingly as I freeze his movements with my hands and pull back from his mouth.

"Slowly," I whisper when I feel his muscles tensing.

His pained noises of dissatisfaction soon give way to softer, breathless little gasps as I ease him into a state of pleasant arousal – not violent and desperate to please me, to "get me off" – but deeper... more heartfelt, more impassioned. While my determined fingers continue to merely touch and _feel_ him, his body so intimately close to me now, my intentions begin to dawn on him.

I'm _not_ just after a quick fuck or two. I'm _not_ willfully groping for that ultimate reward of a climax. When I look steadily and lovingly into those dark, wondering eyes, he watches me back with the surprised new knowledge that I'm doing this – this naked, vulnerable, genuinely _feeling_ thing with him – in order to _know_ him. To know his body, his wants, his desires. Every stroke of a fingertip over a sensitive area is an attempt to memorize the beauty of his body, to discover the mysteries behind what sensations reach into his brain to stimulate that erogenous zone.

I'm not just banging away to achieve relief – I'm searching for any and every cue to make _his_ breath come a little quicker, to make _him_ moan in pleasure. My probing, questing hands are truly _feeling_ him, loving every touch and committing to memory the silkiness of his skin, at the same time forcing him – not to give into me, as he's so familiar with of a dominating lover, but – to also... _feel _something himself.

He's told me before, openly admitted, that in order to endure being molested as a child, raped as an adult, and otherwise coerced during all those years, he had had to trick his own mind into believing that he was there to please them. That his own pleasure was inconsequential, unimportant – even if, as with John, it occasionally was a turn-on for his abusers to think he _was_ enjoying himself. And even when doing that, he couldn't remain in the situation fully, mentally. He'd had to imagine other people, ones he preferred, were doing these things to him in order to stay interested enough to bear it without breaking down.

But now, right here with me in this moment, I refuse to let him disappear inside his own mind – and he doesn't seem willing to rehash the old lies himself either. It must be a bit different for him, engaging in a "loving" act that truly _is_ loving with someone he actually... well... _loves_. Something he hasn't experienced in _years_.

But this makes it that much easier for him to stay focused, as I don't insist he immediately turn over and let me slam into him. He's a bit thrown at first, of course, earnestly puzzled as to why I would even want to take the time to do such things as kiss him, or hold him, or run my hands over every inch of his body, just for the thrill of feeling him.

So when he sees me looking intently into his eyes to read him as my roaming hands trace patterns of honest caring over his lower back, I can literally _feel_ his breath leaving him, shakily, overwhelmed by the pure euphoria of acknowledging my words, which are more true than when anyone else has said them to him.

"I _do_ want you," I repeat, grazing his lips with mine as I gradually lean forward, sliding him to the side as I crawl up from my receptive position. Directing him with only my hands, I kneel beside him and urge him to settle there, on his hands and knees, as I shift my kisses back to his throat. His head tilts slightly from me to let my tongue sneak out, trailing along what I now know to be one of his weakest points. I hear his gasp as I change position, huddling over his back while still attempting to not seem overbearing. My arms braced on either side of him, I easily nudge his legs apart and kneel between them, placing feather-soft kisses over sharp shoulder blades, closing my eyes to concentrate fully on the musky taste of his damp skin. My mouth closes on the top of his spine, dragging downward to cause a shiver to engulf him as lips, tongue and teeth create a wonderful friction between us. His back arches when I reach his tailbone again, and I rest my weight on my haunches while I encourage him to remain where he is, leaning slightly forward with my hands caressing the still-tender frame of his injured ribcage. Taking my time to tease the backs of his hips with soft nips and hot breaths, my fingers find the still erect pink nubs on his chest, squeezing and pinching just hard enough to make his voice catch when he tries to whimper a sound of novel delight. I whisper against the small of his back how lovely his shape is, emphasizing this claim when I pull my hands down the length of his torso, paying special attention to the amount of pressure put on his sore ribs: just enough to evoke a light gasp of pleasurable pain, enough for him to feel the honesty of my statement of his allure, but not too much to make him flinch with a true jolt of it.

Hands settling back on his hips, this time from behind, I nuzzle the small of his back and place more butterfly kisses with moist lips there, lowering my thumbs to massage high on his cheeks. He takes in a deep breath, bending forward a bit more, and I feel his lithe muscles stretching, expanding slowly as his body relaxes into a sweetly docile role of accepting my worship of it. A high, breathy moan escapes him as the underside of my tongue laps lower, insinuating itself between those firm ass cheeks with a gentle insistence to open him even more.

By the time he's come completely down to nestle his upper half against the pillows and mattress, head on its side and tilted slightly to peer down at me – half-curiously, as if he can't believe I'm daring to do such a thing, and half-wantonly, because he can't deny the sensation of my hot, probing tongue is delicious – I've planted my palms firmly on his ass, spreading him carefully to trace the outer ring of his hole with just the tip. His eyes squeeze shut fiercely as a hissing gasp causes his hips to lurch suddenly, but my hold on him keeps him steady as I mercilessly tease him with every facet of my mouth. A remarkably high-pitched squeal meets my ears and I smile devilishly to myself at his evidently surprised joy in the discovery of what must be a new, daring act to him.

Either John was always too intent on getting what he wanted himself, or he just wasn't very creative – or maybe he found it revolting. But this is obviously uncharted territory for Matty, because the unrestrained gasp and distinct moan of something surpassing mere eroticism that leaves him when I finally force my tongue inside are unable to hide that he's never been fucked by a tongue before. Mimicking the movements of my cock from earlier, when I was fucking his mouth with indulgent abandon during that heaven-sent blowjob, I slowly and thoroughly proceed to penetrate his tight, gorgeous ass with my tongue, slipping and sliding it in and out repeatedly as he sobs into and clenches the pillow beneath him. His voice is utterly, excruciatingly thick with heady delight, his hips pushing against me with every intrusion, trying to drive me deeper to reach his true aching. But I'm no Gene Simmons – I can only go so far. His need compelling me on through his uninhibited whines and wordless pleas for something more, as exquisite as this feels to him, I pull back after a time and soak two fingers with my saliva before – gently, cautiously, so as to not disturb his wave of pulsing ardor – I slip them into him next, my remaining grip on his body tightening when he lifts his head from the pillow to let his jaw drop open and his eyes roll back. Pushing back against the insertion, he engulfs my digits fully with constricting muscles before I have a chance to check myself. His swiveling hips and almost lamenting moan tell me that this is even more satisfying – but still... not quite _enough_.

I use the opportunity, while he deliberately moves himself on my hand, to sit back and catch my breath – but mostly, just to watch him mutely, except for my own grunted indications of heightened arousal over being witness to his slowly writhing body basking in my deeper touch. Meanwhile, my free hand slides over his rear and beyond, gliding between the accommodating spread legs to find his hard, weeping erection throbbing helplessly. I grasp him – firmly but tenderly – and groan at his responsive wail of approval when I start a tauntingly slow pumping rhythm. I wriggle my fingers around his length, being sure to take in the most minute details of his overheated flesh. This random extra massaging makes him squeak provocatively, as if the added pressure to his already sensitized organ is too good to take. His head falls forward again, burying his face in the pillow as I work my other fingers deeper inside him, seeking and quickly finding that vital sweet spot that immediately clamps his ass cheeks around my hand and rips a hiccuping sob from his throat. I feel his swollen cock twitch, and instantly loosen my hold, drawing back on all my actions before he has a chance to reach his climax.

As I seem to leave him so coldly after working him up to that level, Matty swings his head back around to glare at me over his shoulder, eyes wide and shining, wild with exhilaration. I know he's dying to demand why I've stopped so abruptly, so I cut off his question with an equally sudden, unexpected lunge forward to capture his now raw lips – _must have been chewing the fuck out of them this whole time_ - in a deep, needy kiss. He simultaneously melts beneath me, his entire body quivering with anticipation as I silently assure him – by way of an intentional brush of my own rock-hard cock firmly against his backside – that I'm not nearly finished.

I switch my head to his other side, covering his neck with more kisses as my body looms over him – at the same time struggling to stay upright on one arm while the other reaches for the drawer in the bedside nightstand, searching blindly for my lube. (Okay, so I'd told myself no strings – probably even no sex if things had gone how they usually did for me; but aside from the benefits provided during masturbation, let's face it: a gay man is not a gay man without his lube...)

Even when I find it, though, I refuse to allow this to sink down into a purely carnal level. I can't help it – I'm human, and a particularly more sensitive human to boot, so if given the chance to be with the person I'm so madly in love with, I want to be sure he knows where my purposes are coming from – aside from the obvious physical craving.

Resting back on my heels again, I squeeze out a generous amount and coat myself with it, going an extra mile or so on account of recent events. Plus, as we're so blatantly breaking medical advice, one can't be too liberal... I add more to my hand and soothingly stroke it over his exposed entrance, inserting one finger again to feel his heat and hear his faint start.

Satisfied, I return to leaning over him, setting the tube on the stand in case more is needed later, and reach for his waist, urging him to turn and face me.

Once more, I'm reminded of just how used the boy must feel, as he's hesitant to take this very vulnerable and open position with me. He glances over his shoulder when I ask him, looking perplexed.

"Are you... you want..."

I regard him intensely and whisper, "I want to see you," placing a kiss on his bony shoulder. My hand lifts to tenderly touch his cheek. "I want to look into those gorgeous eyes when I'm inside you..."

His eyelids flutter shyly, but with a small, bashful smile, he gives in and twists around beneath me, repositioning himself to come face-to-face with my burning gaze.

The touch of an inner thigh against my hip coaxes me to lower myself between the long (for his height, anyway), slender legs, balancing my weight on one arm as the other drapes itself low on his body. I rest my hand on his other thigh, caressing the smooth flesh there as I gaze down lovingly at the prone form under me. Running my hand up and down his leg, taking in the sight of him – fully aware now of the enormity of the situation, as he is finally, willingly below me... _no – __**with**__ me_, I think passionately – I'm suddenly overcome with a mixture of emotions I've struggled to restrain for the last several months. The relentless yearning and hungry craving; the awed respect and amazed adoration; the guilty pleasure and sincere admiration. It all washes over me as my eyes sweep repeatedly over the small, seemingly innocuous, lovely body before me. It strikes me as so unfathomable that anyone would want to harm such a tiny thing, such a sweet creature, such an unassuming, playful, genuine and brilliant person such as this. And it occurs to me that it's quite unusual, showing the depth of his personality and intelligence, his beautifully unique character, that he could have been so stubborn, so strong and persevering, as to survive all that he has, and still remain so...

Well, _lovable_.

I lift my gaze to his large, patient eyes, which are full with questions, emotions of his own, a longing like I've never seen in another confronted with _me_ before – and a most adorable expression of a quiet thrill over finally being introduced to what it is to _love_ someone so purely and wholly.

I can honestly say, as happy as I am to fulfill this aching desire of mine to be so close to him, I would still feel all these things regardless, just as strongly as well, if he were suddenly unable to go through with this. Even if we live the rest of our lives without becoming this intimate, it would be pleasurable enough for me to be able to love him from afar, if need be. This radiant young man in my arms, he is everything to me, and I realize now that I truly feel for him what I've never quite been able to feel for someone else – that unconditional caring, that urge to protect him and ensure his happiness. I would give anything for him, sacrifice anything, as long as he's safe, happy, and stays just as kind, loving and beautiful as he is to me in this moment.

With every ounce of me, before I even touch him as I wish to, I gaze into those dark orbs returning my look, and whisper thickly, "I love you, Matty. I really... truly love you."

His soft breathing expels a gust of warmth over my cheek, and, his eyes shining despite the haze of lust in them, he replies huskily, "Love you, too... Ted... I... It's Matyson... My name. It's... M--"

"Matyson," I repeat, brushing my lips over his. "I love you... Matyson."

Unable to cover his small smile, he struggles to speak again, but when I see him become so flustered that it proves difficult to form a word, I take the opportunity to save him by claiming his mouth again. His eyes flutter shut and he groans into me as I deepen the kiss, my body sinking into him, lowering myself to rest on his deceivingly weak form. I embrace him as my lowered hand clutches underneath his thigh, lifting him slightly higher to slide the head of my cock against his entrance. With utmost care and certainty, still locked to his lips, my other arm slips under his slight frame to reach up and over his shoulder, grasping him to me almost protectively as I guide my cock into him, cautiously, thoughtfully – mind-numbingly _slowly_ – easing it inside that artificially moistened, excruciatingly _tight_ hole. His leg lifts of its own accord then, bending over my hip and encircling my waist to urge me on. His long, drawn-out inhalation as I continue to penetrate him freezes his further exploration of my mouth, but my grip on his shoulder squeezes briefly to reassure him, my own tongue still coaxing and soothing him as best as it can.

It's almost _painful_, it's so good, I think blindly as I groan with the effort of holding myself back for his sake. But then, this sensual torture, this centimeter-by-centimeter approach gives me the chance to actually _feel_ him inside, the soft but tense muscles, the gorgeous heat and delectable tightness of his body – it's enough to send my mind into a dizzying frenzy even despite the sluggish physical movements. Despite his body's immediate reaction to contract around me, squeezing me to an agonizing degree, I savor the sensation – though I'm inwardly thankful that I've used as much lube as I have; no way in hell would I have glided in as smoothly as I did with any less.

Vaguely, I wonder how the fuck John could have ever _dared_ fuck him dry like that – and this only makes me feel more sympathy for the poor thing, as he'd had to _take_ that...

But those thoughts are quickly swept from my mind as the main purpose here reminds me that Matty doesn't want my pity – he just wants _me_. My true, honest love, nothing more and nothing less. So that's what I give him.

With every laggardly added inch of me, Matty's breathing increases and his voice gains another octave – not to mention sheer volume. His arms clench around me incrementally, his head tilting back and mouth opening wide against my own. I gulp down every moan, every start, every hitched cry that escapes him – and, miraculously, he only insists on pulling me closer. I keep my eyes open as I refuse to stop kissing him, watching _his_ eyes flutter and his face twist between pleasure and pain.

When I'm finally, fully enclosed inside him, he gasps into my mouth and then lets out a shaky whimper; I can feel his muscles cramped so securely around me that I almost fear to move, for the possibility of the crushing friction either hurting him – or making me come far too quickly.

Gradually, though, as I break the kiss and lower my head to burrow into his neck, his gasps lessen, and I feel the fierce muscles easing around me – however slight. Though it's still a bit risky, I breathlessly dare to attempt a short, small rocking motion – and I know that somewhere in there, I'm definitely hitting the right spot, as Matty instantly mewls seductively next to my ear, his hips thrusting against me sharply as I continue this mellow, subdued rhythm.

As he eventually adapts to the new, larger intrusion, Matty's eyes flutter open again, and feeling the brush of his long eyelashes over my cheek entices me to lift myself over him again, returning his dazed, mesmerized stare with my own.

"Teddy," he whispers, his usually pale cheeks now flushed pink. "You feel... wonderful," he breathes, as if he can't quite believe it himself, even if he'd hoped that this is what it would be like – what it was _supposed_ to feel like.

Me, though – I'm absolutely lost for words, my mind an unthinking blank as I mildly thrust minutely back and forth inside of him. All I can manage is a labored, grunted, "Unn... so... good..."

He responds with a sultry moan, his own hips riding my movements with an abandoned ease, basking in the glow of my heartfelt yearning to ensure _his_ luxury. As I settle into a slightly longer, measured rhythm, my movements increasing while speed decreasing, his softer, calmer sighs and murmurs tell of the strangely unfamiliar yet glorious state I've put him in. Not urgent or stiflingly needy, but a serene, though still passionate wave of seemingly endless bliss.

As our bodies move together in this contented act, this ultimate expression of such a deeply felt caring and craving for each other that – at least for me, and seems to for him as well – surpasses any similar feelings we've had for others in the past, his "education" of my previously stated concept takes such a full effect on him that, as I put every muscle available into my actions, I hear him weeping quietly into my neck as he clings to me so earnestly.

Alarmed, I pause in my strokes to cup his chin in my hand, lifting his head to look straight into his wet eyes with concern.

"Are you all right?" I ask hastily, my already pounding heart now feeling like it's going to explode with worry. "Did I hurt you? Matty, what's wrong?"

He struggles to catch his breath, hiccuping slightly, and shakes his head, his sweetly aroused expression touched with a bit of helplessness.

Finally, his voice coming out high and trembling, his hands glide slickly over my back and shoulders, caressing my muscled chest lovingly, and confesses, "I just... love you... so much, Teddy... I never... You're so... good... So good to me... No one's been this good to me... And I ... don't know... just... love you..."

As he presses a vaguely embarrassed face into my chest, sobbing with emotion, his fingers curling and flexing on my skin, I smile and hold him to me, lifting his head again despite his difficulties in looking me in the eye, apparently feeling too silly over _crying_ during this to meet my gaze. To alleviate this unexpected surge of uncertainty, I kiss him deeply as I continue my slow, thorough strokes, which only add an erotic bent to those moans as he cries. He returns the intrusion fully for a long moment, then suddenly loses his breath and starts planting small, smacking kisses in succession on my face, my neck, whimpering those same gorgeous words repeatedly between them, his hands grappling to get a better hold on me as he becomes so overwhelmed with our lovemaking that he starts losing track of himself.

A different variety of getting lost in the passion than before, when he'd only been trying to appease what he thought _I'd_ wanted – this is becoming urgent, but not for any other reason or by any "learned" response than he's simply... well, loving being loved.

"I know, baby," I whisper huskily, breathing him in as he moans those sexy sounds so high in his throat and arches his back to sway into me with every thrust. I start gaining momentum with each heightened whine he gives, his head tilting back and rolling side to side as I pick up my speed in riding him. "I know. I can feel it, I feel you so perfectly..."

Feeling his own hard-on pulsing against my belly, I slip my hand from under his leg to reach between our joined bodies. As he nips, laps and suckles at my throat and chest, his hands caress my arms and back as if to memorize their touch, as I did to him earlier. And when my fingers wrap loosely around his arousal, his head snaps back and he cries out thoughtlessly, too wrapped up in the entire moment to feel self-conscious now about how feminine and shrill he sounds.

The reaction sends jolts of pure ecstasy through my own writhing body, especially when his already tight, hot muscles clench further around me, as if trying to squeeze the life out of me. I yell back at the enjoyably taut, strained hold he has on me, every muscle in my body now aching from exertion – and aching to feel that warm, sticky substance leaking into my palm...

The thought of his impending orgasm is too much to bear, and before I know it, I'm plunging into him mindlessly, reveling in the heat and intensity of his body, the beautiful firmness of his ass, relishing how his squirming limbs and undulating torso are so blatantly indulging in the selfless, insistent love I'm giving him. Urged on by his impassioned shrieks of my name, his lovely figure alive and thriving beneath me as I continuously pump my throbbing cock in and out of his inviting ass, I feel my own end drawing near and quicken my hand on his erection. The tears on his cheeks are as stunning as his alluring smile as I stroke and caress and love his deserving body into a mind-blowing, remarkably powerful – and, miraculously, simultaneous – orgasm, strong enough to actually (no lie) make him _scream_ with passion... as I can still hear him over my own rather loud wail of satisfaction.

...I can only imagine what the neighbors must think...

Limbs entangled, sweat and semen blended and inseparable, loose hair plastered to damp faces, we lay in the now silent bed wearily, panting to catch our breath and struggling to refocus our eyes.

His head now resting languidly on my shoulder as I lay beside him - partially still _on_ him, actually – and run my fingers through his dark, sweat-drenched hair, groaning to myself over having the chance to stare at that lovely, sweet face as he reconnects slowly with reality after such an intense orgasm.

Opening his still bleary eyes, he sees me staring in my usual awe of him – and his pretty face breaks into the most adorable, toothy smile imaginable. I can't help myself grinning back at him, and as I pull him into my arms for a heartwarming snuggle, neither of us says a word – we don't have to, really. This is it for both of us – our searching is done, and now we're free to simply love each other as much as possible – at the moment, at least, it feels like we could do this for the rest of our lives. Who needs words when you've already made love to the one who holds your heart?


	14. Chapter 14 Abreact

14 - Abreact

_Matty:_

The gloomy sky matches my mood as I gaze out the car window, peering up at the looming building. My eyes focus on a particular window four stories up, and I wonder vaguely if anyone had ever been able to see me from there, staring longingly out at the thriving world below and wishing I could have been a part of it. Back when I envied young girls waiting for buses, because it meant they had something to do, somewhere to be – that they mattered. Back when I tried in vain to pull out the nails from the sealed windows with only my fingers, living off a daydream that at some point, I would succeed and climb down the daunting height via knotted sheets and towels, if I couldn't get the one in the bedroom open to the fire escape.

But I'd ended up walking straight out the front door instead. Bloody, broken and delirious.

So now, the vivid recollection of how I'd come to be in such a state resets my mind to its initial revulsion to the thought of returning here.

A hand on my shoulder causes my limbs to twitch reflexively, though I'm unable to drag my attention from the empty window.

"I don't want to do this," I repeat for perhaps the tenth time since last night, when Ted suggested we come first thing after he got back from work today.

He squeezes my shoulder, but it does little to alleviate the leaden knot in my gut.

"It's all right – I'm gonna be right there with you," he reminds me softly, and at the gentle brush of his knuckles over my cheek, I turn to him with moist eyes. "I promise," he adds, as if that'll get my body moving.

It's a heartfelt attempt on his part, and I know it'll all be a relief once it's done and we're "home" again, safe and sound. But right now...

I turn away from his encouraging expression and recommence staring at the window far above us.

Right now, I just don't know if this terror is worth it.

Though I'm silent as I lead Ted, who carries a few empty plastic bags in his hands, up the old staircase to the fourth floor, I can hear my heart pounding furiously in my ears – and for no logical reason, other than the repugnant thought of being back in those familiar rooms again. I suppose the possibility of John actually being home is reason enough to fill me with such dread, but I assure myself that it's illogical – when has he _ever_ been home before nine, at the absolute earliest? He's dedicated to his job, certainly more than he ever was to my happiness, so it stands to reason that my disappearance still shouldn't affect his work habits; if anything, in fact, I would assume he's so hateful of me, of being alone at _all_, that he'd probably throw himself further _into_ his work. Probably chase exasperated students down on campus to give them random quizzes and extra advice or something.

I shudder to think what sorts of things he's told anyone, like our neighbours, or anyone else who knows he had a side ornament tagging along for the ride all these years, but I try to push it out of my head: it doesn't matter, it's not important, it has no effect on me.

I've almost got myself settled as we reach the appropriate floor and head to my old "prison chamber" – but when I see the door set partially open, slightly off its hinges, with the remnants of splintered wood and a broken latch still hanging uselessly from where I tore it off weeks ago... my body comes to an abrupt halt in the middle of the corridor, my hands trembling.

"Matty?" Ted stands right behind me, off to the side, and places a hand on my back for comfort as he peeks over my shoulder. "You okay?"

I draw in a shaky breath, staring numbly at the damaged door – no doubt, John's heard threats from our landlord for this... but then, even if I'd been the one to force it open, breaking the lock, I _hadn't_ torn the thing halfway off its hinges. The damage had been easily repairable before. John had to have done it. Probably in his fury when he woke to find me missing.

Ted follows my gaze to the door and gestures to it. "Is that it?"

I can't work my voice. Not even when he dares to step around me and reach for the haphazard slab. I want to warn him, to tell him to leave it be, that I can't face what's on the other side of it yet...

But I say nothing, and the remaining hinge makes an awful groan as the door is slid open a few more inches. Ted peers inside, eyes taking in all I can't see myself, and he mumbles stunned words as he enters the living room without me.

"Holy shit," I hear. "This place is..." He reappears in front of me, eyes wide. "You had to live like this? The place is a _wreck!_"

I blink quickly, shaking my head. "N-No... It's not..." I finally gather my strength and step past him into the room – but then my breath leaves me once again as I look around at the disaster that used to be our home. "This isn't... what it looked like before..."

Apart from the damaged door, he's left a few gaping holes in walls whose rather plain white papering is peeling away. The couch has been moved, almost diagonal now, with marks in the back like he's kicked it in. Cushions are ripped, spewing forth the stuffing, and one of the arms is bent so fiercely that it's practically lopsided.

The small table between the television and couch is overflowing with unopened mail; stained with spilled drinks and crumbs; marred with a gaping crack reaching at least two feet across the top of it. The ashtray is full of yellow butts and grime, and on top of all that paper, it's surely a fire hazard.

His own cherished recliner is on its side, the seat cushion on the other side of the room. Under the fallen chair, slid out across the floor as if a stack has toppled over, are numerous familiar books: photo albums, I recall hazily. Old history from ages ago, back when we'd first moved here, and earlier. Before things had gone completely downhill.

"Damn," Ted whispers, shaking his head as I gape around at the mess. "Try finding the remote in _this_..."

"I imagine that's how the holes got there," I quip, though my voice is hollow and shocked. I carefully step over the piles of envelopes, catalogues and overturned coffee mugs to squat down near the fallen albums. I hazard lifting one from the floor as Ted swings around the corner of the doorway for a moment.

"There's a flashing light in here," he calls, not daring to turn on the overhead. "Is that a phone?"

"Machine?" I call back, still too distracted by the photo album to pay attention.

There's a slight pause, and Ted lets out a low whistle. "Jesus – I don't even want to know what this place looks like in the light of day, if the smell is anything to go by..."

There's a slight rustle from the other room as I turn the album upright and set it in my lap, opening it slowly. A click and beep later, a mechanical voice rings out from the kitchen: _"You have thirty-two new messages_."

I twist back to throw Ted a wide-eyed look as he watches me from the doorway. "Thirty... Thirty-_two?_" I ask, shaking my head. "That's... just not possible..."

He shrugs helplessly, and starts hesitantly picking at things on the floor, unable to quench his neatfreak habits, attempting to sift through some of the mail as I turn back to the book and the messages play behind me.

_"John, it's Dean. I'm calling to check in on you, as it's been three days now and the big man on campus won't tell me nothin'... So when're you comin' back, eh? If we're doing that joint session next week, I'll need to talk to you about the details... Call me back..._"

I blink furiously at the crinkled cellophane covering snapshots of a younger, happier couple as the next several messages play: all random professors and colleagues, calling to ask after him. I assume he'd been out the rest of the week when I first left, as no one seems to have known why he wasn't around... One in particular is an older lady, asking about his "family emergency," as if she really cared...

Blimey. The bastard's had an entirely separate life from here. Not that I care, really, but... the double-standard is just so infuriating. I truly _was_ a "kept woman," wasn't I? The Alpha Male lording over his home and ruling things at work, whilst I sat here typing away blindly and cluelessly, wondering when the hell my _life_ was going to start up...

Then the familiar disembodied female voice rings out from the machine: _"This message is for Mister Gabriel. This is Rita from Royal Medical Services. We have been attempting to contact you via your Internet email address regarding your status with our agency, but have not received any response. We would greatly appreciate your correspondence on this matter, as it's been more than a week since our last communication from your source connection. Please contact us at your earliest convenience..._"

I stare blankly at the pictures in front of me. Bloody hell. She sounds as lifeless as the bloody machine spewing these recorded messages at us.

There's a faint pause, then Ted's soft voice as he sits gingerly on the undamaged arm of the couch. "Gabriel?"

I glance back at him absently, shaking my head. "Yeah... Thought you knew that."

I can tell he's smiling at the back of my head, furtively joyful over yet another "new" discovery about me. "Matyson Gabriel. Nice name."

"Mmm," I mumble, refocusing on the photographs. "I figured you saw it on the records that gallery bloke gave us."

"I should've paid more attention, I guess. I was a bit too concerned about the numbers to focus on the letters."

I flip a few more pages and come to a stop at one of the first pictures which shows evidence of when the violence started – though we're still beaming our bloody faces off to cover up the poorly concealed black eye he'd given me. Sitting in a pub with another person in the same booth with us – one bloke from another couple we'd met hardly a year after coming here. He and his lover, the man holding the camera, had been extremely kind blokes who'd tried to take us out on a friendly level, tried to tell us more about the fun parts of London we could explore.

"You have a middle one?"

I swallow hard, studying the photo next to it: just me and John, his arm round my shoulders and eyes peering haughtily at the camera whilst pecking my cheek, and me holding my arms out in front of me, clutching my hands together as I smile shyly up at the bloke and try to bow away from the attention.

Even at that time, I'd felt like he genuinely loved me. Like he'd truly been sorry for hurting me. And having that picture taken of me was uncomfortable, I remember my hesitance – because I didn't want anyone thinking he'd done it...

"Sarosh."

I don't even register his silence as I continue gazing at the pictures. Two more are random moments of just me, looking awkward and timid, but smiling nonetheless, on that same "double-date" the kind men had insisted we all go on together. We never went out with them again after that night, because John said he disliked them, though I could never work out _why_ – they had seemed like completely harmless gentlemen... if the man behind the camera was a bit louder and somewhat blunt with his overzealous nature...

Thinking back now, I realise, I can easily take a guess as to the real reason why John disliked them: because the more friendly, affectionate bloke had paid a bit too much attention to me – not just for the pictures themselves, but what I simply thought back then was a nice guy joking around with me, being funny and such... I can see it. After what Ted's told me and pointed out to me these last few weeks, I know now that the guy had been flirting with me, and I hadn't even known it. I was too stupid, too naive, too oblivious – too blind and needy for just a _friend,_ to see that this – albeit still innocent, but rather blatant – fawning over me was a huge problem for my insecure lover to handle.

Still, it didn't _have_ to mean he was _after_ me – he was just having some fun.

To John, though, the fact that I giggled along with him and gave those sneaky looks to the camera was enough for him to want to put some distance between us and them; it didn't matter if the guy was serious, or if his lover scolded him for being obnoxious when they got home later. To John, he was a threat. So I never saw either of them again.

Most likely, one or both had tried to call a few times after that night, but John probably always answered and made excuses – or flat-out told them to go away.

Good God, I think suddenly as I stare into my own achingly lonely eyes from over six years ago; what if he did worse than that? What if, for revenge, he tried to make it seem like the camera bloke truly _fancied_ me? Would he actually have dared to break up this couple merely to get back at the one for thinking me... well... photogenic?

I don't want to think so... but my still-imprisoned pub mate and memories of why I hate hospitals assure me that it's not _so_ far-fetched a possibility.

The rock in my gut turns a few times, grinding my stomach to a pulp as I flip through the rest of the album and am reminded of numbers of old mates, potential mates, possible friends – and realise how their numbers always dwindled as time wore on, their contacts always abating the more times we got together with them socially, until it was, inevitably, just me and John. Again.

_My God_, I muse silently, slamming the book shut with a snap. _How many lives did he threaten? How many relationships did he ruin? How many people did he offend or try to damage in some way? Just to keep them away from me – because he didn't trust them around me... or __**me**__ with __**them**__..._

Holding my head in my hands, I don't even notice how I've begun rocking back and forth, not hearing Ted as he asks me something I can't concentrate on right now. Still stuck on the name thing. I can't focus, can't comprehend his attempts to distract me, to calm me... to get me thinking of something besides the horrid realisations and stifling memories that are making me nauseous right now...

Ted leans down and rests a steady hand on the back of my neck, causing me to jerk my head up with a gasp. I twist round to face his concerned countenance, feeling breathless and weak.

"Hey. You all right?" he whispers, wiping some dampness from my face. It's not tears, I notice, startled that it's even there – it's sweat. Just _being_ here makes me feel cold and clammy, but my rapid heartbeat and ragged breath are signs of being right smack in the middle of a recognisable sensation: panic.

"Yeah," I sigh harshly, dropping the book like it's hot metal against my flesh, attempting to stand on wobbly legs – and failing. Remaining crouched down, I inhale deeply and close my eyes, willing the dizziness to go away. "Just a bit... um... nervous," I go on, taking a stab at nonchalance but being betrayed by the quiver in my voice.

Ted nods knowingly as I open my eyes again, forcing an unsteady smile. Thankfully, he doesn't say anything to contradict my claim, but still offers a hand to help lift me to my feet. Once we've cleared the dangerous piles of junk mail, he doesn't let go – his arm remains hooked round my waist, the other linked with my own as he grasps my fingers with his. Reaffirming his presence, so I don't have to become so overwhelmed and incapacitated with memories of regret. Or terror.

Speaking of terror...

We start for the kitchen, and Ted repeats the earlier question that I missed: "Your middle name is... Sarosh?"

"Yeah," I confirm softly, eyes trained on the dark doorway.

"That's a bit... unusual..."

I smirk and squeeze his fingers to show my gratitude for his distraction. "My mum was... unusual."

"So... where's it come from?"

I swallow hard, now overcome by the faint whiffs of mold growing stronger. "Ugh... Um, the name – it's from some ancient religion... Apparently it was the name of some being from those stories... I think it was the equivalent of an angel or something..."

He pauses, causing me to come to a halt as well. I glance over at him in confusion, wondering why he's stopped – and it's not the impending stench up ahead... He's simply looking at me, a small smile on his face.

"Whu?"

"An angel, huh?"

I feel my cheeks regaining some color, as I blush furiously and avert my eyes. "So?" I mutter, nudging us forward. "Go on, then, laugh..."

He does snicker, but it's not in jest – he's amused, but not for the reason I think he is.

"Actually," he murmurs, his own grip on my hand tightening, "I think your mother was very insightful."

I scoff at that, but don't protest – hell, I've already told him I'm no bloody angel, but the bloke doesn't want to listen. But whatever. All that matters is that he's with me, and I'm safe, and I know how much he loves me merely by the steady hand on my side.

And we have to face this new dilemma together. This could very well test his devotion to me, I think cynically as I reach to flick on the lightswitch in the kitchen.

I'm taken aback once again by the catastrophe that greets us: dirtied dishes piled high in the sink, refrigerator-kept food left mangled on the tabletop, counter filled with half-finished take-away, and the entire room – even the stools in two separate corners – is littered with empty liquor bottles.

The smell alone is enough to turn one's stomach, as I hear Ted's disdainful groan beside me, but despite this unkempt disarray, my main source of paralysis comes from my attention settling on that table – now full with rotting lunchmeat and the like from the deli... but I see more than that.

All I can process is a volatile fragment of being held down on that table, nearly drowning in flowing red wine as I choked and sputtered, groping blindly for the fierce arms which kept me restrained.

All those times he became infuriated with my lackluster attitude whilst serving him his dinner; those times he was so sure I was mocking him or being smart... leading to a rather painful encounter in which he would "prove" to me who was the "man" between us...

I must stare at it bleakly for such a long moment as to worry Ted, because he has to shake me by the shoulder to wake me from my stupor, snapping my head round to face him with a dazed, arduous look. I immediately feel the urge to flee, to just turn right back to the front door and run...

"Hang in there," he urges, squeezing the back of my neck affectionately. "We're almost there." He cringes at the mess of a kitchen whilst I catch my breath, asking hopefully, "Nothing from here, right?"

I faintly shake my head, looking away to face the doors to the other two rooms – the extra room, which served as both John's study and my half-arsed attempt at a studio... and the bedroom.

Ted notices that I'm staring hard at one of the doors, and nudges me slightly with a hand holding an empty bag. "Which do you want to start with?"

I feel a flutter in my chest as I realise he intends to assist me in packing my belongings, and my mouth goes dry. All I can do is shake my head, otherwise immobile. My feet seem rooted to the floor.

As if instantly reading my dilemma from the stone-cold expression on my face, he pushes gently, "Would you rather I do one room, you do the other?"

I blink finally and whirl back to him, startled that he's even suggested it.

"You sure?" I ask, as if it's not my choice.

He tries to shrug it off, but I can see the genuine caring in his eyes. "I know it must be hard – but you may not feel comfortable with me in such a... a private moment. I don't want to intrude if it makes it harder to deal with, having me there – but I don't want you to think I'm not right here for you. If you need me. It's up to you – whatever you can handle. If you need to be alone for that... for that part... just let me know."

I swallow thickly, once again touched by his devout kindness and understanding. Taking one of the bags from him, I know there's no way I want to subject him to being in... _that room_ with me. I just can't deal with the idea of him coming that close to it... as senseless as it is, really.

I gesture to the other door. "My art supplies and notebooks are in there. I really just want the tools and books – no need for the easel or anything too difficult to carry."

He nods and heads over as I make my own way to the other door. I watch him carefully as he opens it and makes a sharply contorted face of disgust.

"Must've done some heavy drinking in here, too," he mumbles, cringing at the obvious odor which seeps out. He flicks on the light and peeks inside for a moment, then pulls back with a sad smile.

"Can the computer, by any stretch of the imagination, _not_ count as something `too difficult to carry'?" he asks hopefully.

I smirk back regretfully, shaking my head. "Unfortunately, that stays. It's his anyway – he just let me use it for work."

"Damn. Oh well..." He glances back for a second, then turns to me again. "How about the piano? That's yours, right?"

Again, I have to disappoint him with a negative response. "Sorry – it was a present, yeah, but it's still technically _his_. Too heavy for the car anyway, I reckon."

He sighs heavily. "That's a real shame. I'd love to come home and watch you play every evening..."

"S'awright," I assure him, a lump forming in my throat. When he regards me curiously, I give a timid smile and explain in a strained voice, "He only got it for me as a pity present anyway."

Ted furrows his brow, tilting his head to one side in question.

"When he... put me in hospital," I clarify. "After that, he felt so guilty that I'd nearly... well... y'know... He thought he could make up for it by gettin' me that... so I wouldn't, y'know.."

"Tell anyone?" Ted suggests wryly.

This time _I'm_ confused – and it strikes me just now, how off my reasoning is... because, to me, it's just a matter of assumed acceptance that I _not_ tell anyone – of _course_ I wouldn't have said anything, not to the doctors or the police... It was just _known_ that these things were not to be revealed to anyone else.

But how do I explain that to someone whose first thought is that the piano was a bribe to win my silence for John nearly killing me?

Well... I simply don't. Instead, I only answer, "Leave him."

Since, of course, I had, at that time, just proved to John that I was desperate enough to get away from him that I would walk out and go off with the first bloke I met at any random pub.

Which also led, despite the grandiose gesture of buying me my very own piano, to the external lock on the door – in case I ever felt like wandering off on my own again when he wasn't around.

As Ted dives into the other room to collect what he can find, I hesitate in front of the door I face, feeling myself withering from the inside-out with just my fingers on the handle. I try to steel myself against the possibilities, the potential flashbacks my mind could choose to torture me with this time, but there are just too many... an overabundance of expected memories that could come flooding my head once given the chance...

Preparation is unnecessary, I think drearily as I turn the handle – whatever may come, there's no real guard against it. Might as well just get it over with...

The room is shrouded in darkness, and it doesn't help the eerie atmosphere when the light fails to work – broken bulb gone unreplaced, I surmise.

However, I'm quite surprised that, when I enter the too-familiar room and the same pungent stench of stale alcohol invades my senses, I'm faced first and foremost with that wretched bed, the one I'd been repeatedly tied to over the years, having to endure John's persistent, violent hands and brutal, forced fucks – and I feel... numb. I've seen this piece of furniture in my worst dreams, have awakened screaming with tears covering my face – and confronted with it now, I feel _nothing_.

No flashbacks, no flood of memories, no moments lost in a sea of hysteria and panic.

Nothing. Just silence, darkness – only a vague sense of empty sorrow for whatever form of injured weakness I used to be as I laid broken and helpless on that worn mattress.

The light from the kitchen is the only contrast in this lifeless space, apart from a dim streetlight half a block down sneaking through the window, and my sigh seems to disturb the very atmosphere of the room in an invading, intrusive manner. As if the place itself is angry at me for my now distanced acceptance of the things he'd done to me – like it resents my pity for all these four walls have had to witness.

I slowly step to the bed and sink onto the mattress, my fingers grazing over the wrought-iron bars of the headframe. Twisting round the rusted metal like the very rope which used to entrap me.

How old this bloody bed must be. We'd gotten it at a home sale the first year we came to London. Like the lock, the ropes never made an appearance until after the first time I walked out, but I wonder now if, even back then, he'd insisted on this particular frame for the possible advantages of the bars. Surely he couldn't have foreseen the eventual outcome of his thoughts to keep me restrained in every way imaginable.

With a strained air of humour, I mumble quietly, "Why not just handcuffs, eh? Wouldn't have hurt as much – though I suppose that was part of the point, wasn't it? Still... would've made it a bit kinkier, I reckon – maybe I would've gotten into it then..."

The dark room continues its cold silent treatment, save for the squeak of the bedsprings as I stand with a sigh and flick the bag out in front of me.

For a moment, I hesitate again as I swear I've just heard something beneath the noise of the plastic opening to my sharp movements – a grunt of some sort? A small groan? Probably the sounds of Ted moving around in the next room, I decide, and step up to the dresser, where open drawers are already holding out strewn clothes to me.

"Well," I say to the darkness, "maybe for once your angry fits will be more of a help – don't have to fight with these bloody oak drawers. You always did get a kick out of watchin' me struggle, didn't you? Bloody heavy buggers--"

My voice chokes off into a sharp gasp – though I don't feel a thing, like the iron grip round my midsection. All I can comprehend, as my brain finally collapses under the flimsy support of a renewed, vague confidence, are the rush of previous experiences when I find myself inexplicably flat on the bed again, staring up at a darkened ceiling as the echo of a slamming door reverberates in my ears. And, like an oxygen mask held by a frantic nurse, my lips are suddenly covered – smothered by a revolting, hungry mouth.


	15. Chapter 15 Mercy

15 - Mercy

_Ted:_

The first thing I think when I hear the door slam is that Matty's just had a particularly bad moment on his own – maybe a sharp memory of that night, or any hundreds of other equally bad nights. I hesitate in my task of filling my bag with several used notebooks and brushes – at least, the brushes that don't look like they've been broken or mangled by a pair of furious hands – and debate internally for a long time over whether I should check on him, see if he could use a shoulder to cry on or whatever...

But then I hear his voice – a muffled, desperate shriek that somehow makes it through the wall – and I know it's not one of sorrow or residual emotional pain.

He's awakened me a few times over the previous weeks, his vile memories combining with his unconscious dreams to create a perfectly terrifying nightmare so vivid that only my comforting, strong (but carefully measured, so he doesn't feel stifled) hold can force them to ebb as his hysterics die down into breathless gasping. It's quite a difficult feat to master, hugging without smothering, calming someone without restricting them, but I've had numerous chances to put it to action, so I think I've creatively found ways to succeed.

But this sound that I can only vaguely make out – it isn't a sound Matty would make merely from a disturbing thought, a troubling memory; nor is it a heart-wrenching sob over a depressive idea. This is a noise of true fear. And whether it's a fear of something physically tangible or just overwhelmingly cerebral, I respond only with the knowledge that he needs me.

Rushing out of the room, abandoning the bag and art supplies in the study, I see the closed door to the bedroom and fling myself at it--

To my surprise, the door swings open easily, and I look inside the dark room to find two silhouettes on the bed before me.

Sitting bolt upright against the iron frame, Matty is half on and half off the mattress, his arms up, hands groping for the bars behind himself, as if trying to get a decent enough grip to hoist himself higher away...

...from the large, obtrusive form attached to his waist, holding onto him fiercely as it shakes and twitches in front of him, lying flat on the bed to cover one of Matty's legs and evidently unwilling to let him slip out of the forceful embrace.

"Thank God," the massive lump moans over Matty's distressed gasping, and – presuming this is John – he buries his face against Matty's stomach, as if trying to crawl inside of him. "I knew you'd come back, I knew it... I told myself every day that you would, I knew you would – it was the only thing I could count on..."

His breaths fast and his soft whimpers high and panicked, Matty looks to me with wide eyes, the dim light from the window illuminating their tearful, silent pleas. He's scared, all right – shocked that not only was he not alone the entire time he's been in this room, but that John's reaction to seeing him again is so...

Well, _pathetic_.

I don't dare say it, but I feel like gloating to the bastard, "Who needs _whom_ to survive again?"

But as much as I want to run over and tear Matty out of those threatening arms, I keep myself calm and try to think reasonably: if something so violent were to happen, he would no doubt react just as strongly, and with Matty dangerously held in the guy's grip in this moment, I don't want to risk his safety. Best to treat this like confronting a dangerous dog – slowly, cautiously, and not by just running away with the false hope that you'll be faster than something proven to have the advantage.

I'm no mere slouch (thanks once again to the gym), but from just one look at the lump on the bed – on _Matty_, really – I'm reminding myself not to go overboard with confidence: I may make Matty look like a prepubescent teenager who's been starved for half his life, but I'm comparatively smaller than John, and I doubt I'd be able to overtake him if he went ballistic on us.

I can't help but feel yet another pang of sympathy – not pity this time, but true, genuine _sympathy_ – for Matty as I see exactly who and what he'd been up against in the past decade. I remember what it's like to be harassed by someone bigger, so it's no wonder Matty's as shaken as he is right now.

But I _do_ feel a stab of horrified regret when I remember my own advice to the tiny, skinny man: to "confront" his lover, to "be honest and open" about his decision to leave, instead of sneaking out at an opportune moment.

Sure, I hadn't known at the time what Matty had been facing... but any shred of sanity and experience should have told me that, if he could be open enough to tell me bluntly after knowing me only a few days, "You're not so lame yourself, Teddy – if I wasn't taken and you weren't so stubborn, I'd shag you," Matty trying to leave quietly behind John's back meant that he'd been serious about not being _capable_ of being straight-forward.

(And yes, he _did_, by the way, say that to me once during one of our first meetings at Judy's bar...)

To keep him calm, I hold up my hands when I meet Matty's desperate eyes, inching quietly into the room.

"I missed you so much, baby," John sobs, making Matty wince with a mixture of fear and... real _guilt_. "I almost started thinking you'd left me for good – I was _furious!_ But not anymore... I don't even care anymore _why_ you went away... As long as you're safe, as long as you're home... That's all that matters to me anymore..."

Matty shakes his head mournfully, closing his eyes tightly as he must be trying to think of a way to get out of the tangled limbs, even through the sudden shock of John's presence, and the torrent of flashes from the past that must have brought on.

I try to get closer to the bed, but as I do, Matty's face relaxes, his breathing slowing dramatically, and his groping hands settle, dropping gently to the dark head at his waist. When he opens his damp eyes and catches me in his gaze again, it's with a renewed look of sturdy confidence that he answers my unspoken question. I raise my eyebrows, gesturing to John.

Matty swallows hard, then shakes his head. _No – I can do this. I'll do it on my own – only I __**can**__, after all. It's __**my**__ problem_.

I make a face of dissatisfaction with this plan at him, but he's resolute. So, reluctantly, I stay put – though I don't back off an inch from my present spot. Just in case.

"John..." His voice cracks with uncertainty and raw emotion, too full to go on for a second. Then he clears his throat and repeats, a bit steadier, "John... I'm not... I'm not here because... I'm coming back."

The trembling form in his lap shifts minutely, an incoherent mumble only clear in its abrupt denial of accepting this statement.

"I'm serious," Matty continues – gentle but firm, stroking John's hair affectionately (_affectionately!_) as he peers down at him. "I'm not coming back. I'm... only here for my things..."

Slowly, the form on the bed lifts its head, looking back up at the (admittedly pretty, therefore devastating) face above him. In all their aching beauty and compassionate mercy, John dares to look him directly in the eyes.

Even I'm surprised at the new tears that catch the light from the window as Matty watches his former lover – not gaping in fear, as before, but with woeful _pity_.

"I meant it," he continues quietly, holding John's face between long, delicate fingers, "when I said I can't do this anymore. You know I'm not in love... with you... but I don't... I don't want to hurt you..."

John sniffs, wiping at his cheeks like a child. And with the awe of a child myself, I watch, dumbfounded, as the boy who came to me a mess now returns his abuser's penetrating stare – and speaks _kindly_ to him.

"I'm asking you," Matty says, his voice high and thin, but still stronger than the frantic hyperventilation from just minutes ago, "to please... just let me _go_, John."

And he's not begging – he's simply doing as he said: _asking_ John for this one small request. A request which means his entire world.

Witnessing this... unusual display before me, I can't help but think back to the Matty from Saturday: so furious over being led along so blindly, so angry that this same man had knowingly kept him helpless and incompetent for so long... and seeing him now, as he's confronted with John finally – as he'd wished the other day, in order to at least _try_ to pummel him madly – the guy could easily be mistaken for being so scared that he's buckling, giving into John before he can be hurt again.

But this is only an illusion; in this moment, Matty is probably stronger than John and myself combined, with how he's given the opportunity to take advantage of John's decrepit state. I myself wish I could get the bastard alone (and maybe a few dozen extra pounds of muscle to make it a fair fight) so _I_ can rearrange his face, if he won't rearrange his own personality.

Instead, Matty must have reached a place beyond anger or fear – now, he only sees just how much the man he's spent a good third of his life with (perhaps closer to _half_) truly does "_need_" him... Matty and I have spoken about this neediness before, and he eventually came to conclude that my words were pretty accurate when I surmised that John's probably more dependent on him than the reverse; but now, Matty sees just _how_ deep that dependence runs... and I think it really stuns him. To the point of... well... _kindness_.

But then, that _is_ his way, no matter how upset he was a few days ago; in the end, he's just a very... _hopeful_ person.

And in the face of that innocence and hope, that pure yearning to be free to live his own life, I honestly don't know how I would answer myself. And _I_ don't _believe_ in ownership of another person – but to "have" this particular one by my side always, would I resort to force to keep him there, as John's done?

Apparently, John knows the depths of this dilemma first-hand, as he stares back at Matty for what seems like an eternity, as though lost in his debating mind.

"You can't keep doing this to yourself," Matty tells him, finally voicing what I've suspected since we walked through the door: his utter astonishment that someone he's known for so long as such a violent, demanding hard-ass would be reduced to a manic, self-destructive, slovenly drunkard without _him_ around.

"You're better than this," Matty goes on – and I stifle my scoff before it reaches the surface. "You don't need me to survive – you'll be fine on your own. You did it before you ever met me. I know you, John – you _can_ pull it together and get yourself sorted again without me. You're a teacher, and a bloody good one at that. You love your career, you love what you do – and those people at the school obviously see you as an integral part of their lives. You need to take that energy you use to punch holes in walls and put it toward your work – productively. This just... It isn't _you_..."

I bite my lip as I think cynically, _Sure as hell seems it – only __**you're**__ not standing in the way of those walls anymore_.

But I suppose eleven years of knowing him means a bit more than a few months' worth of vague hints, and only a few _hours_ total of hearing second-hand stories.

"I'm sorry, John," Matty says passionately. "I'm sorry for so much – for letting you down, for breaking my promises, for disappointing you. I'm sorry this couldn't work out for us," and he genuinely sounds it, too, the tears sneaking out as he goes on. "But most of all, I'm sorry we've wasted the last five years pretending that it could--"

"I never pretended," John hisses – but Matty doesn't flinch, even as I _do_ at that menacing tone.

Without missing a beat, Matty assures him – like a mother pointing out to her son his failing grades, or a counselor reminding a drug user of how low he's sunk in the past – "But you did. You pretended that you couldn't see how unhappy I was. You made yourself believe that I was being spiteful by being so unresponsive, when you _knew_ I simply _couldn't_ – because I didn't _care_. At least if I'd been resentful, it would have meant there was some kind of feeling or emotion behind it. But I felt _nothing_, and you couldn't admit that."

Amazingly, the large brute doesn't hiss at him again, or lash out – he simply bows his head, unable to look at the man he still loves in some twisted, desperate way. And he just weeps. His face resting against Matty's bony chest, arms wrapping around his body in an actual warm embrace, he _cries_. Shoulders twitching and head shaking in disbelief, he just _cries_.

And honestly... despite all I know, I can't help but feel a twinge of pity for him myself.

I don't think he deserves this heartfelt speech and encouragement from the very person he's mauled and hurt so many times before, but that's just me. Matty... well, he's got those things I admire, which I love him for even when I think he doesn't need to waste them on a pile of shit like this guy: compassion, respect, and even – though it's certainly not what it used to be, and probably from a sense of obligation after their long history together – some kind of general love and caring for the man in his arms.

_Or_, a tiny, vindictive voice in the back of my head suggests, _maybe he's going with the "kill him with love" approach – be so damn nice that the guilt becomes absolutely unbearable, because surely John has to know by now how wretched he was to the kid..._

No... As nice and devious as that sounds – perhaps suggesting it would have been a possibility for _me_ if I'd been in the same situation – it just isn't Matty's style. That sorrow and disappointment over a failed love affair... that's _real_ for him.

"I'm sorry," Matty repeats, voice breaking – and I wish to God he would just stop apologizing already! He's not the one who should be saying this shit! But I guess he feels like he needs to... "I'm sorry to abandon you like this..."

And then he finally proves himself: "But you don't _change_. You never have, even when you promised you would. So I'm not the only one who broke promises here. You promised you would take care of me – but if that were true, you never would have put me in a bloody _coma_, John. It takes a bit of _work_ to do that to someone usually, so it's not like I'd been pleading with you to kill me."

John's arms tense around him, but Matty doesn't seem the least bit intimidated (but I am – praying that the fucker won't squeeze the life out of him again...).

"Face it, John: it takes both to make the thing crumble. And we _both_ made mistakes and we _both_ failed – so we let each other down, really. And for my part in that, I truly am sorry. But I... I want to move on now – before we make it any worse. And I'm asking you to let me go, without a fight, without the bloody dramatics, without the threats and the cursing – because whether you approve of it or not, it's happening. How you deal with it is entirely up to you. I would _hope_ you could find some good in it, a chance to start over – or, if you truly love me, for you to hope that I'll find a way to _be_ happy.

"But... even if you don't want to grant me that freedom... I _am_ taking it. As you've told me before – there are two ways to do this. I'd prefer if you take the easy way, because it'll be that much easier on both of us; but if you insist, I can deal with the hard way too."

Leaning forward, Matty hunches over the weeping form, murmuring softly to him some words of comfort I can't hear. Comfort, or maybe pleading – hell, maybe he's threatening him. (Doubtful, duh.) But whatever he says seems to work, because finally, but for a few tension-filled seconds here and there as he tries to latch on tighter again, John reluctantly lets him go. He lets out a helpless wail at first, but in the next moment, Matty leans down to kiss the top of his head – and to my surprise, he then slips out easily from a pair of still outreaching arms.

Standing from the bed, Matty steadies himself against the iron frame as John sinks into the mattress below him, whimpering quietly into the pillow. With a soft sigh, Matty bends to pick up the fallen plastic bag and goes to the dresser, returning to his original task of collecting his clothes.

Cautiously, I step closer to him. "I'm not leaving until you're done," I mutter out of the corner of my mouth, slightly worried that he's going to give me one of his indignant assurances that he can handle it on his own.

Instead, he casts me a sideways glance, a tiny smile of relief on his lips as he whispers, "Thank you." He inclines his head nearer to me and adds, so quietly that I strain to hear him, "He's so bloody pissed right now, I dunno if he's about to pass out or attack me."

I nod my understanding and regard the limp body on the bed without another word.

Matty gathers his things without anymore conversation, though the silence in the room is broken now and then by John's pathetic grunts of sorrow and protest.

Heaving his usual backpack over his shoulder from a corner chair, Matty hands me the bag of clothes and nods to me in assurance, so I obediently step outside the room as he turns to go back to the bed.

But just as he turns away, I catch his arm, pulling him back, and ask sheepishly, "Did you, uh... get the red shirt?"

He stares at me blankly for a long time, shakes his head at me when I raise my eyebrows.

"Huh?"

"The red one," I hiss, pinching his side. "You know... that one..."

He gasps sharply, either from just remembering – or from my pinch. "Oh – yeah... Yeah, of course I did. Don't worry..."

I sigh with relief and nod, ducking out of the room to let him finish his business. Matty chuckles at me faintly, but grows grim again when he returns to his former lover's side.

But I'm not stupid – I linger right outside the open door, eyes and ears focused entirely on the now split couple inside.

Matty kneels by the bed, telling John quietly, "I'm going now--"

He's cut off when John grabs his shoulders, pulling him close for a deep, needy kiss. I feel my muscles contract, ready to lunge into that dim room again, but I find I don't need to do a thing, as Matty refuses to budge or respond at all. The coldness from him is so strong at that botched attempt for rekindling some kind of flame that even _I_ have to shiver – and I can't even see Matty's face! (But I can imagine...)

John eventually releases him, flopping onto the bed with an incoherent moan.

"Listen," Matty goes on, sounding conversational now, but somehow practical as well. "I want you to remember this, okay? John, pay attention."

Another mumble or two, and Matty sighs in defeat, "I suppose I'll just write it down, then. But just so you know – I'm going to the bank tomorrow. I'll be taking out some money for myself, but the rest is yours. I don't know the specifics of how much you've kept from me or used to pay for expenses and things, so I'm not going to take too much."

Another grumble I can't make out.

"What's that?" Matty asks, drawing closer to the drunken twat's mouth as John repeats himself. Somehow, Matty understands him the second time and answers, "Two thousand."

I gawk; _only two thousand!?_

A hand reaches out to cup his cheek, and John whispers to him, his eyes closed as he caresses Matty with what must be the gentlest touch he's given him in ages.

There's a slight pause, and Matty smiles faintly. "All right. Four, then."

John nods, running his fingers through the soft black locks, as if trying to commit the feeling to memory through his inebriated haze. He mutters to Matty again – something even I can make out this time, though, telling just how clear he wants to be: "I just want you... taken care of... I can't right now... but when I get better – I'll... I'll find you again... I promise, Matyson, I won't... won't let you go..."

Another quiet moment, and then Matty suggests, as if not even hearing his troubling words, "Get some rest, then. And take better care of yourself from now on. Starting tomorrow." A beat later, he adds in his edgier tone, that rare stern one I've only heard once or twice from him, "But, _do not_... come after me. John. I mean it. Do _not_ try to find me again. I promise you – and it's a solid promise this time – I _won't_ ever be coming back. Y'hear me?"

Despite the sharp voice, he ends his goodbye by leaning in once again to plant a sincere kiss on John's cheek, then rises from his knees and turns to me with a pained expression.

Just before he reaches the doorway, John's slurred voice comes out loud enough for both of us to catch: "I love you, Matyson. Don't forget... what I said..."

Matty cringes and shakes his head, averting his eyes from mine as he closes he door behind him.

Clutching the bag so tightly in my hand that I can _feel_ my knuckles turning white, I ask him calmly, as if I haven't heard John's earlier threat, "What did he say? What did he mean?"

Matty hesitates, his eyes darting around quickly, and gives a dark chuckle. "Nothin' I haven't heard before. Not important." He blinks and gestures to the other room. "I'd best finish that..." And before I have a chance to offer doing it myself, he disappears into the study.

Arguing with myself for a long time as I lean against the doorframe to what used to be Matty's bedroom, I finally snap when I decide I can't just leave it at that. I drop the bag to the floor and cautiously open the bedroom door.

Though my steps are measured and purposeful, my brain is swimming with paranoia and fury. I march right up to the bed, and as a pair of bleary eyes crack open to peer up at me, I lunge for his collar and yank the bastard out of his already disturbed, drunken rest, up to my looming face.

Surprisingly, he doesn't fight me at all – but then, even Matty said he was too drunk to make sense, and the knowing smirk on his twisted face tells me he was expecting this sort of thing.

But I don't let this throw me – I jerk him to me and growl threateningly, "You listen to me, asshole – you lay one hand on him again, I'll have you locked up so fast, you won't know what hit you."

"Really?" he slurs. "You think you'll be able to?"

"We have evidence against you – I'm only holding back because _he_ feels sorry for you – and he has some ridiculous notion that you're good at your job and your students need you. But you even _attempt_ to hurt him again, in _any_ way, I _will_ have you arrested – if I don't kill you myself first."

"Will you, now?" he taunts, the grin only spreading and twisting more. "How convenient, then, that you'll be back in the States soon. Pretty hard to fuck him from another country, now, isn't it? Let alone protect him from the likes of _me_ – you know, his _lover_. You'll be long gone, Mister _Ted_ – I presume it's you, of course, since you have that annoying American twang and you're _all_ Matty could rave about recently... But I'm not worried – my life will be back in order soon. You'll be gone, and I can go about living my life again – with my lover right where he belongs: beside _me_."

His words sink in slowly, but when they reach my brain, all I can manage is a hissing, "He won't be here for you to bully."

John's smirk turns to a delighted snarl. "Oh yeah? Think he'll go with _you_, do ya? Lookit you, mate – you're a tired old twat with nothin' goin' for ya. You actually think _Matty_ will leave his life behind to go with _you?"_

I don't even need to pause to come up with a comeback, as the perfect one is so glaringly obvious: "What _life!?_ You haven't let him _have_ one--"

"But if you really know him at all," he points out petulantly, "you'll know too that it won't take much for him to create one for himself – and there are plenty of others out there far more desirable to be with – or even _look_ at – than _you_."

This long-avoided issue finally being voiced – and by _John_, of all people – is the one thing that makes me stutter in my vague assault on him; the very real possibility of his suggestion touches something deep inside of me, forcing me to hesitate.

That goddamn insecurity – the same one John must have... but, I tell myself, not _nearly_ to the same degree. It can't _possibly_ be... _that_ bad for me...

"He doesn't love you," John sneers when he sees the uncertainty in my eyes, and peels my hands from his shirt to replace himself on the mattress. "He's using you, mate," he goes on lazily, as if it's something we're all supposed to have known from birth. "Just like he used me to get out of his house. You watch – a year down the road, he'll start whining that the feeling's gone, it's over – why not just let it die? And you'll be left all alone again. That's why _I_ refuse to let him leave – I _won't_ let him use me like that and get away with it. You're just another sucker for him. And from the looks of ya, not even one to think himself worthy enough to put up a fight when – not _if_, but _when_ – Matty decides he's done with ya. You let him go, he'll be off in a second. And you'll be alone, broken-hearted and bitter, knowing that you were just a convenient tool for him at the time."

My chest feels suddenly cold, my stomach turning to ice as well. All those fears and doubts I've had before – at this very moment, I see the actual product of their actual existence, right in front of me.

Another part of my brain tries to cut in, tries to remind me of Matty's smile, his honesty and caring, the heartfelt claims of his love for me – but every moment I'm able to recall soon fades into a reasonable excuse, another logical _motive_ behind every instance. Sadly, I realize that as he's telling me this, my blind belief and delusional faith in Matty's passionate feelings for me... are finally starting to waver. The more he goes on, the stronger that doubt becomes – and the fainter Matty's smile becomes in my recollection...

But then, from seemingly nowhere – probably the subconscious part of my brain that refuses to let me become so cynical and bitter that I ignore earnestness when it's shown to me – I remember one time... one time I couldn't explain; one time that no amount of reasoning can possibly make me doubt his virtue.

Those beautiful tears he couldn't hold back when I made love to him, because he couldn't believe someone was treating him so sweetly for once – treating him how he'd always longed to be loved. His body clinging to me so warmly, filling me with such assurance, such emotion, as I filled him. His eyes gazing fixedly into mine, completely intent on seeing as deep inside of me as I wanted to see of him. There was no room between us for any lies – or even _pity_. I wouldn't give him a chance to think or feel otherwise, and he was too overwhelmed by the intensity of the situation to be able to _fake anything_.

Despite my underlying fears, which I've already suspected for a while happen to be disturbingly similar to John's, that vivid memory alone is enough to reaffirm my devotion – my faith in that "little angel"...

Yes – even if his words are false otherwise, that moment was pure, and to have felt that at all... I know if reality sets in to disappoint me, I will always have that moment to reflect fondly on. That's all that matters – he's worth it.

But that's if John's words are _true_: knowing Matty, the pain on his face as he left his first-ever lover behind in John's self-made tomb of despair was more authentic than any doubts John is trying to resurface in me. He's been lying to _him_self all these years – and he stoically believes the "kid" was only using _him_.

No wonder he ignorantly took out his own paranoia and anger on Matty, the assumed source of his insecurities; _he's_ the one with all the resentment. _Matty's_ the one who actually feels _pain_ in seeing a man he once loved fall apart. Even if this same man beat him brutally, raped him, kept him like an animal...

_Now_ who's the user? You worthless pile of utter _shit_...

But I don't tell him any of this.

Instead, I grab his shirt again, hauling him up off the bed with a strength I didn't realize I have, and repeat into his repulsive face, "I _will_ kill you. So _stay_... the _fuck_... _away_ from him." And I emphasize this threat and order with one measly punch – a punch so hard that he can't even grunt before he's out cold.

God, how I want to just pounce on him, prone unconscious form or awake and alert, and pummel him, smash that pretentious, smug mug into oblivion...

But I don't. Rather than bloody us both up, I leave him passed out on the bed and force myself to remain quiet, even in my footsteps, as I leave the room – and head for the refrigerator in the kitchen...

Matty emerges from the study a short time later with his bag, smiling vaguely, causing me to reason that he's probably quite relieved by now.

But before I can say or do anything to encourage this feeling in him, he glances at the pack of ice I've slapped together and tied to my hand in an attempt to ease the throbbing.

"Uh..."

I cringe when I already know what Matty's about to ask me.

Guess I punched the drunk bastard a bit harder than I thought... Again, the gym receives my mental gratitude... even if my _bones_ aren't as appreciative...

"What the hell ha--"

"Nothing," I insist airily, grabbing his other bag to cover up the ice pack – out of sight, out of mind, right? (Yeah, sure...) "Had enough of Memory Lane?"

Watching me suspiciously, Matty narrows his eyes and drawls, "Y-Y-Yeeeeah... I suppose..." He snaps his head to the side and demands, "C'mon, what'd you do?"

But I'm not John – I'm way too embarrassed to be intimidated by the "Voice of Pure Steel."

I just smile benignly at him and shrug. "Dunno what you mean, mate," I quip, imitating his lovely accent. "Not important. So, are we off, then?"

Still peering at me awkwardly, he starts for the door. "S-Sure... Y'know... you're quite odd, really."

"Nah," I tell him with that stupid grin plastered on my face. "This is just how one acts when one is madly in love, that's all."

His silly giggle lifts my spirits again, and before I know it, we're on our way back home.

Even if he _does_ continue giving me those funny looks in the car. Hey – whatever. At least he's not shrieking in fear – or, perhaps worse, crying in pain. If I can make him chuckle with my stupidity, then great: I'll become a jester, just for him.

I wonder if that comes with a pension plan...


	16. Chapter 16 Comfort Zone

16 - Comfort Zone

_Matty:_

Originally, Ted says, he wanted to take me out to dinner at a nice restaurant after leaving my old place, just to celebrate my true freedom from John finally - or to cheer me up if I'd gotten too frightened during the ordeal. But neither of us had counted on John actually being there, so after our little surprise reunion, I'm far too shaken - and, strangely enough, a bit sad - to handle being out in public right now. I'm utterly grateful that Ted notices my hesitance when he asks if I know of a good place to eat, ad instead suggests spending the remainder of the evening quietly at home.

It's odd, I think as I follow him into the rented suite; I know in my head that this sort of carefree bliss isn't going to last, that Ted will be leaving to go back to the States in a few weeks, and as he hasn't said anything about welcoming a tag-along, I suppose I've already begun planning loosely on how to restart my independent life here on my own. (Never once considering, of course, how absolutely useless I'll become once Ted leaves and I'll probably feel my heart crumbling bit by bit, if it doesn't stop all together once he's gone.)

Still, with this factual knowledge lingering around the logical part of my brain, I've continued to think of this lovely set of simple but cozy rooms, the soft bed and the peaceful quiet that comes with a lazy, affectionate cuddle at night, as "home." I know it's not _"our_" place, really, but just being with him, feeling him hold me, drifting off comfortably as he either snores softly away above my head or stays up reading whilst I fall asleep on his chest, _his_ company, is what I consider "home" now. And to have finally reached that point after waiting for over two decades of my life to relive what I lost when I was six years old, and so easily with someone I never thought I'd get the chance to meet - someone smart, warm, caring, funny, absolutely adorable in my eyes, and who, for some reason, seems ready to offer _me_ the world on a silver platter if only he could - after only a few short months... well, it's beyond any kind of luck I'd ever be able to imagine. Blimey, I'd become so engulfed by my own depression and self-loathing that I'd stopped daydreaming (whilst _not_ getting force-fucked by some uncaring brute) about second chances.

But now I've been given one, I dread the idea of having to let him go so soon.

This is what drags on drearily in my mind as I lay on the couch with him this evening, as he sips some tea and reads whilst I simply enjoy the soothing sensations of his loose fingers stroking my hair and the inviting support of his lap to rest my head on. As much as I feel secure enough to be able to close my eyes and _not_ tense up like I'm expecting a blow if I dare to look away from the reality in front of me, I can't stop my thoughts playing over and over again about the fact that... well... essentially, in a few weeks' time, he'll be leaving me.

I don't hold a grudge or anything, I don't blame him or feel angry with him. I just have an overwhelming sadness, a tightness in my chest, an ache in my throat as I feel the tears starting to come on. Despite my closed eyes and the infinite calm, the peace of mind being near him brings me, this one idea manages to break through those calm barriers and exacerbate already raw nerves only vaguely being mended beneath the still-thin surface these days.

I like to think I can handle a lot. And really, in spite of my small size and my rather passive nature, I _can_ endure quite a bit, as I've told Ted. Physically, emotionally, psychologically - I may give off an initial start sometimes, but for the most part, I can cope and move on. It may seem sad, or that I'm just jaded - and maybe I am, actually - but admitting that I've been a victim of abuse - bodily harm, inadequate environmental supports, severe emotional damage and mental tortures, on top of the sexual twists as well - for the majority of my life is rather easy to do. I've no qualms confessing that I've been habitually raped by two specific people in my life, rather carelessly and brutally to boot on some occasions, and otherwise urged, coerced against my true will by several others, as an already unstable, vulnerable teenager whom these hormonally driven older boys had no problem taking advantage of. But I feel somehow stronger now - _because _I survived all of it and never once succeeded in doing myself in, even when the panicked urge to just get away from everything for _good_ was strong enough to crumble me into a ball at night whilst I cried myself to sleep. Just wishing to make it all _stop_, no matter what the means or consequences. I didn't give in to that "easy" way out, and I think it's because I've always had a mind that's far too curious to give up, even after such mistreatment and potentially dangerous predicaments.

I still want to see what sorts of things I can push myself to do. I want to know what I can learn and accomplish on my own, how far I can reach. I want to be around to see if we'll all be driving air vehicles one day, or if eventually taking a pill will extend one's life after all. I want to know about things, see things, in person that I've only read about in books or on the Internet. I'm only twenty-seven, I've still got plenty more years left in me to experiment and explore this life my mother blessed me with.

And now, with Ted in my life, I know what it is to feel that spark again - that love, that ambition to strive to become better than you are, to please him not for the sake of saving myself a beating, but just to see that cute, crooked smile on his face. And I want that feeling to stay forever.

But... I haven't even got a month left with him. Of course the future holds so many options, so many possibilities - possibilities for change, for upheaval, movement and new beginnings.

But right now... in this moment... I'm feeling quite small and weak, to be honest; a bit too vulnerable still, especially after catching a glimpse of John's spiral into a pitiful existence, to charge energetically, full-speed ahead, into a brand new life. And apart from this, I'm not sure how much harder it's going to be to have to continue on, coping and regaining my independence, without having Ted to look forward to seeing every day, without having him here to catch me when I stumble along the way.

As much as i want to start over, as much as I can _taste_ the freedom on my lips...

I don't know if I can do this on my own.

Ted must hear my inadvertent sigh of resignation, because he pauses in his reading to lower the book, leaning over me a bit.

"Hey," he says softly, giving my neck a quick, assuring squeeze. "You all right?"

I swallow the lump in my throat and nod, letting out a long, steady breath in an attempt to calm my threateningly shaky nerves.

Then he says something that startles me: "Still thinking about John?"

I make a face of revulsion, which he can probably only catch a part of. "No," I answer finally. "No, I wasn't, actually..."

"Mm... You... seemed pretty worried about him..."

I notice a twinge of concern in his own voice - unsure if it's for me or himself - and shake my head. "It was startling to find him in such a sorry state after supposedly '_losing'_ someone like me, who he always said was such a burden anyway... But he's a big boy, you know. If he fucks up bad enough to land himself on the streets now, it's not my fault. He certainly knows more about living than _I_ do, he's seen to that personally."

There's a slight pause, and then, as if speaking despite his own reservations to come close to seeming like he's taking John's side on _anything_, Ted argues reluctantly, "I don't know about that. He may know more about the practical aspects to living in your own place and paying bills, the common tasks that you've been pretty disconnected from... But I think _you_ know more about actually _living_ than he ever could."

At this, my eyes flutter open and I stare blankly across the room at the silent stereo, which is usually, by now, playing us our accompanying overtures and operas whilst we have these sorts of conversations.

"How... How d'you mean?"

"Well..." His fingers brush lightly over a particularly sensitive area on my neck and I twitch, smirking slightly. "You're definitely more energetic than he seemed..."

"Oh, shut it," I snap playfully. "You know I'm ticklish..."

I can hear his soft laugh, indicating the smile on his face, but it must fade quickly as I settle again, because he sounds quite somber as he goes on, "But the point is, _you're _the one between the two of you with the majority of imagination and curiosity, that urge to actually live and experience things. You're the one with a craving for something _like _a life - maybe it's just like that for you because you've been so deprived, but I honestly doubt it - I think you'd be like this even if you'd grown up happy, in a decent situation. So... with that strong passion for anything remotely resembling a life gone from his environment now, I imagine he must feel like... like the light's gone out or something. Without you there. Or... Well, that's how _I'd_ feel, anyway..."

I scoff openly after a moment of deliberation of his words, closing my eyes again and nestling closer to him. "He's blind, then - that light went out _years_ ago. And he only brought that abandonment on himself."

Despite my rather flippant response to that, he replies even more gravely, "I know. He must've nearly smothered it in you. You were so..." There's a short silence, then a heavy breath. "When I first met you, there was just something so... _off_ about you. Something that just didn't fit with how you struck me on a subconscious level..."

"You mean like how my so-called _'angelic_' smile contradicted my filthy sense of humour?" I tease.

He chuckles lightly, but his tone is far from amused as he continues, "You just seemed... distant. So used-up. Like you didn't care anymore, and were just along for the ride. Emotionless... If anything at all came through, it was just how _shy_ you were. More... scared than anything else. Very guarded, very uncertain... You were always curious about me, though, so I guess my babbling on constantly about myself kind of..."

"Rekindled my interest in life?" I suggest - in all seriousness.

A pause later, he admits sheepishly, "I guess, if that's how you saw it."

"I did," I confirm. "That anyone cared a toss what _I_ thought was just amazing to me. You know. I said things and you... you _listened_. That... was a huge deal to me. It was like... someone was finally acknowledging that I existed - and not just in order to have someone else to pin the blame on so they'd have a reason to use me as a punching bag."

"Is that why you love me?"

I open my eyes again, stunned by the softly-spoken question. Slowly, I turn onto my back to gaze up at him. I offer a smile and reach up to touch his cheek.

"Not just that, of course. But it's become intensely important to me for someone to _hear_ me. To _listen_. Not many people do anymore. Personal or not, they just don't want to _hear_ it."

The confusion and self-doubt in his eyes is heart-breaking to me, so I sit up and turn toward him, crawling into his lap to come within inches of his face. Very carefully, I make sure he's paying attention, and tell him earnestly, "It's absolutely _vital_ to listen to the people you love, though not many realise that anymore. So you can know their minds and appreciate their souls - so you can still hear, even when they say they're okay, that they're really crying inside and need your support. It's common sense to say `no' when you're _not_ okay - but sometimes it seems like it's just easier to assure the other person not to worry, though actually it's only doing more damage. And then sometimes, it's just not something that can be helped - sometimes..."

I flinch, not realising until just now, as I'm speaking, how true and deep this runs for me.

"Sometimes, it can get so bad between two people that nothing works - not _even_ actually saying, `No, don't do this, just _stop_.'"

Ted blinks, almost giving a start - apparently, his line of reasoning was a bit off from my own.

I know - I've had this ego-crushing, low self-esteem parasite eating me up for years too, so I don't blame him for thinking that I latched onto him only because he made the offer. Taking advantage, as he'd said before, of someone I supposedly knew would do anything for me. "Settling" for someone merely because _he_ worships _me_.

So when he understands finally that this seemingly trivial act to everyone else means the world to me - an insignificant thing someone with his intelligence and compassion would just _assume_ is generally accepted as common courtesy, but actually _isn't_ anymore, making him a truly unique diamond in the rough - his eyes glisten with tears of regret.

"I'm sorry," he whispers, averting his eyes. "I didn't mean to turn it around like that, when I should know damn well why you would appreciate it - would _need_ it, really--"

I shush him gently, cupping his face in my hands to urge him to look at me again. "It's all right," I assure him. "I know you didn't mean it like that. You've been lucky to not have to put up with that shit, so of course chances are that you _wouldn't_ think of it in those terms. But," I add, staring him directly in the eyes, "because you _haven't_ been through it, yet still understand _why_ that's something quite integral to me... _that's_ why I love you, Ted. Not because of what you can do or would do for me - but because you _know_ me and understand it without needing my explanations all the time. Even in that detail, it's not because you know _me_ specifically, personally - but _because_ you get it. To me, that means you're a loving person - it's just in your nature to care so honestly, so devoutly. And you can't stop that. It's who you are. _That's_ why I'm drawn to you. That person in there," I stress, poking his head emphatically before dropping my hand to his chest, "and in there - _that's_ who I'm in love with."

He stares at me when I finish, watching my face with his own stunned expression as I sit back on my heels and let my hands fall into my lap. I glance away shyly after a moment, suddenly becoming a tad self-conscious, as he's simply gaping at me with those wide, round eyes, his mouth slightly open, as if I've just told him he has a jewel hidden inside his chest.

Which, actually, isn't that far from the truth.

I press my lips together nervously, eyes darting around the room but seeing nothing. "Wha? I meant it, so?"

Ted's obviously amused by my inexplicably sudden timid air, as he lets out a sharp laugh, then reaches over to curl his arms around me, pulling me to his chest as he settles sideways on the couch, stretching his legs out along my own.

"C'mere," he urges, pulling me down in front of him for a hug. I return the embrace for a long moment, absolutely loving how I can lose myself in his hold. I bury my face in his shoulder, then lift my head again.

"And you give fantastic hugs," I add. "That's another vital point."

He giggles at this - as if I'm kidding! - then settles again. I can feel his muscles relaxing against me as he exhales slowly, nuzzling my neck affectionately.

I close my eyes again, reveling in how much I adore this man, my arms circling his waist and our bodies pressed together so fervently - but even with this intimate contact, not a touch of lust seems to sully our less direct physical connection. Not even when I lift my eyes to his again and he brushes his lips over mine sweetly before delicately tracing the contours of my face with his fingertips. He gazes at me with such mutual admiration that I can't help but blush and smile back a bit.

"You know," he tells me in a confidential tone, "I'm really proud of you."

For another time tonight, he surprises me; I blink in reply, squinting at him. "Eh? Wha'for?"

"Well... I was just... in awe of how you handled things with John. You have so much more patience - and compassion - in _yourself_ than _I_ could ever claim to possess. But, in a weird way, I'm also just... _proud_ of you. How you didn't back down, didn't give in, not even when he started talking like it was just _assumed_ that you were going back. You stood your ground. You told him everything up-front, just how you prefer to do it, and not even his blind denial of it was enough to sway your beliefs. Because I honestly do think that how _he_ thought things were affected your own perception, and maybe a lot of the reason you _did_ stay so long was more your own resigned acceptance of a situation he _taught_ you to expect and live with. Like, if you weren't as strong as you are, even if I was standing right there, he would say you were back and you would just be too afraid to deny it, or it would be an automatic response of, `Of course I am.'"

It's my turn to stare at him now, impressed by his perspective. "I see you've thought this out," I chuckle.

"It's like a trained reaction," he reiterates.

"What, like Pavlov's dogs?"

"Yeah, sorta... Except you're by no stretch of the imagination comparable to a dog."

I stick out my lower lip, looking as pathetic as possible for effect. "But... doggies are _cute!_"

Ted rolls his eyes, smirking. "Okay - you're a chihuahua."

I cringe. "Naw, not _that_ bad, am I? How 'bout a terrier?"

He shakes his head. "Still too feisty. I know - a corgi."

I consider this option, then nod my acceptance: "Deal. Can I lick you all over now?"

He snickers at that, and at my proceeding attempts to nip at his nose. When he's finally got me settled again - by wrapping his arms round my shoulders and stuffing my face back into his chest - he goes on placidly, "Really, I was so impressed with your courage today."

I outright scoff at that, pointing out, "That wasn't courage, mate - that was pure need... The need for a supposedly sexy shirt my new beau quite fancies..."

"No," he insists - but then he cuts himself short, rethinking his answer. He amends, "Well, _yes_, there _was_ a vital need for the shirt. But no, I'm serious - you were really very brave to go back there."

"Me!? Brave!?" I laugh into his shoulder and shake my head. "I was utterly _terrified!_ I was practically _shitting _myself, my nerves were so shot; I'd hardly call that `_brave_.' You didn't even see 'im tackle me! I was a bloody pathetic ragdoll at first, I was so frightened - and I only got up before he could pin me 'cos I panicked--"

"Yes," he affirms stoically, rejecting my protests and making me come eye-to-eye with him. His expression is strict and severe, though his voice is as typically friendly and encouraging as it's always been, as he informs me, "Yes, you were scared - and that's _why_ I say you were brave. Bravery and courage aren't things you flaunt on a battlefield to stir fear in others - it's not a sign of some muscular, physical prowess or absolute certainty that you're going to win...

"Courage and bravery are signs of a much bigger inner strength than anything the body itself can do. And those strengths _can_ only come out when you _are_ faced with something terrifying. You were brave because you didn't _want_ to go back there; you were courageous because the thought of being in those rooms again made you feel sick, you were so scared - but you _did_ it. Despite all that fear inside of you, you knew you had to go. Not just for your things, but I think you knew it was something you had to do for yourself, to look at that place straight and tell yourself that _that_ was what you were leaving behind. No more, you're done with being someone else's slave, someone else's toy, you're through with being used - you're ready to move on and be _you_ now. And especially when John appeared - you could have run, you could have broken down and begged him to forgive you and take you back.

"But you didn't. You kept yourself calm, and you did what you had to do. John, memories, fears and all - and you walked out that door... a whole person again, I'd like to think. That took guts, Matty - guts, courage, bravery... strength you didn't even realise you have. Matty, you... You're one of the strongest people I _know_. And I suppose... in that way... you're, like, _my_ hero."

I'm left gazing at him with such a touched expression... I could vomit from the sweetness of it.

But joking aside, I really have no idea how to respond to that. No words could possibly express what his sentiments mean to me. So I relent, just letting him take me in his embrace again and smile into his chest, breathing in his now comfortably familiar scent and relishing this moment of pure, untainted selfless pride he bestows upon me.

Though I can't help but add, "I don't think I could've done it without you there, though."

But Ted shakes this off, assuring me confidently, "Nah - you could've done it on your own. And you would've, too, if I hadn't been there. I know you would have."

"How can you be so sure, though? I mean... I'd come up with loads of reasons to leave before, but I never did - with all that self-doubt, I probably _would've_ stayed, liked you said, turning back around the instant he hinted that he'd not hurt me if I just asked to be taken back right then and there..."

Again, he shakes his head, tightening his hold on me. "No - no chance. You know why?'

I glance up at him curiously, truly intrigued by his theory.

Ted smiles at me, then kisses my forehead softly. "Because you _are_ strong. And because I believe in you, that you'll do just exactly what you have to do, to take your life back. I know you would've figured it out and done it on your own, with or without me to urge you on or offer any support. I know, because I have faith in you."

Faith. He has faith in me. He believes in me. He knows me better than anyone else ever has, besides my own mother - and he still says so certainly that he has _faith_ in me.

How could I possibly argue?

And you know what? For three straight nights after that, I didn't have one bloody nightmare. Amazing, the things you can accomplish, the things you can _overcome_, when someone believes in you - especially when that someone is the person you love.

Or, even better - yourself.


	17. Chapter 17 Faith

17 - Faith

_Matty:_

Of course, it's always a bit easier to sleep more soundly when you've spent an hour or two shagging beforehand.

Suffice it to say, since that Saturday night when Ted _so reluctantly_ gave in to my hormonal demands (as if his arm hadn't been flexible enough without my having to twist it, eh?), we've continued disappointing doctors everywhere by breaking medical advice. He's always very careful with me, mind you, and sometimes even goes too slow for my own taste - but in the end, this actually makes for a much more thorough and enjoyable experience. (Not to mention longer, which, for the first time since John shagged me when I was a teenager, I can actually _appreciate_.) We have the chance to connect in ways I never really thought possible in real life - those long, drawn-out moments of seemingly endless blissful gazes and delightfully smothering, devouring kisses, so deep and poignant at the precisely right times that I swear he's able to coax my very soul itself out of my body to bask in the glorious nature of a love so intense, I only thought it was ever written about in cheesy fictional romance novels.

But I truly feel like he sees _me_, when we're together, sexual or otherwise - sees me, hears me, knows and loves me whenever we're together... but in this case, of course, I'm speaking purely _sexually_.

It's more than that, though, "_just sex_." The way he touches me and handles me, almost but not quite like I'm some fragile piece of a precious precious gem. So tender and heartfelt, thoughtful and deliberate. I say "almost," however, because there's an added element to all the kindness and caring I've never experienced before, an element that's a bit more familiar to me - but not, surprisingly, unpleasant when it comes from him.

This simple but powerful _need_ he seems to exude when he takes me, like he can't possibly get _too_ close, can never imagine wanting me _too_ much - it's the most exhilarating feeling, in some kind of strangely self_less_ Narcissistic way, if that makes any sense at all - which it _doesn't_ even to _me,_ and I'm the one who bloody said it.

Somehow... as I've told him before... when he loves me so passionately like this, I actually _do_ start to believe... to feel... _beautiful_. Like I could possibly _be_ everything he says I am, every positive aspect and every inch of this body he's become so enamored of. I'm shocked, really, that I"m able to feel this way about myself at all - I may be less shy or self-conscious about my body when it comes to everyday shit and typical needs that everyone experiences... but in such an intimate setting, I've often found it difficult to take being touched in such sensitive, secretive places - or even just being _seen_ naked.

But whatever it is Ted does to me, whether his voice and words are hypnotising enough to trick me, or if he's simply being so honest that I _can't_ deny something he believes so avidly - it knocks down any barriers I've built around myself, given me the confidence to want to try and pleasure _him_ as well, without fear of failure or fucking up somehow. And with that unspoken certainty between us that we seem to just draw from each other automatically - well, not to sound like I'm bragging, but really - we never make a wrong move, and those torturous, pried orgasms of the past are obliterated from my mind as we share extended moments of pure bliss like I've never known, taking my breath away and leaving me gasping his name as I grope for him. I've never _felt_ so _much_ before with a climax, physically or chemically (or emotionally, of course), and when my mind reaches that peak, for the first time ever with any lover or "partner" I've ever had, I lose total control of myself and feel like I"m waking from a euphoric dream as my own voice blends with his in my ears, sounding like we're galaxies away in some mystical Utopian universe - where I'm actually beautiful, he's actually secure of himself, and this dream could last forever.

But then, as always, Reality sets in as we come down from our highs, and that briefly encountered portal to another world, another time and another life, dissipates to leave us weary and content to spend the remainder of the night falling asleep in each other's arms. Which is by no means a bad thing - except the part that reminds us both, even as we never dare to speak of it, that the unconscious sojourn into night always brings us one day closer to his departure. We handle this dilemma in perhaps the worst way we can: we ignore it, don't talk about it, if at all possible don't even think about it. Because we can't bear to face it.

Until one night, three weeks before he's to leave, he turns to me in bed and starts, "Matty... I was just... wondering..."

My heart immediately starts beating faster again, almost to the point at which it was only minutes ago when I came. I've been hoping for this - waiting, even slightly hinting now and again... but somehow, I haven't been able to find the courage to ask him myself - not because I don't want to, but because I'm afraid... he'd say no... and _then_ how would I cope? My world would come crashing down - and I just know that, even if I'm miserable, I would be able to get through these harder times by myself if I truly had to... but if I knew he didn't _want_ me there beside him... if he told me this "truth" I so desperately didn't want to believe... I would be a bloody _mess_.

And why am I so certain he'd say no? Hasn't he already said he would do anything in his power for me? Hasn't he already proven, time and again, how much he loves and wants me?

So why there's this doubt, I've no idea... unless it's residual certainty of eventual pain on my part, my own insecurity that I'm as much of a burden to those around me as I've been told I am in the past. After years of all of John's nonsense, I still can't seem to wipe away this small - but _huge_ - misconception in myself.

Which immediately drags me down into that debilitating spiral of self-loathing: _don't bother, I'm not worth the trouble, don't waste your time and energy on me_.

Which is _really_ stupid, because I'm quite sure this man I love so deeply is thinking the exact same thing about _himself_ as well!

Wouldn't that be the expected tragic life story for me, though? "Cheated out of a true love by his own self-defeating nature." "Both missed out on the time of their life together since neither had the confidence to believe they were worth it."

So as I'm thinking of all of this very quickly whilst he fumbles and stumbles bravely over his stuttered words, I find myself soaring to new heights of daring as I suddenly blurt out, "Yes, I'd love to come with you!"

At my hasty words, Ted freezes, glancing at me in confusion.

"Huh?"

I immediately feel my insides cramp up, an instantaneous reaction to sharply being aware of how stupidly assuming and obnoxious I'm being. How pretentious and pushy...

But as I start curling in on myself with a pained cringe, his eyes blink several times very quickly as he stammers some more.

"W-W-Well, how did you - I mean - did you know I was - well, y-you... you just... Um..." He peers down at me, then, a look of half concern and half absurdity on his face. "M-Matty?" He breaks into a bemused grin and hunches forward trying to come closer as I realise I"m curling lower and lower...

"Oh... owww... oh?" I groan, furrowing my brow as I try to keep my eyes locked on him - as if I'm waiting for his approval over my stomach pains. But this position just results in my head bending back at an obscure, uncomfortable angle to make me look... well, quite silly, I'd imagine...

Ted chuckles at first, then suddenly seems alarmed. "Are you okay? Did I go too fast? Did I hurt you?"

Catching my breath, I shake my head, assuring him, "Nono - it's just... heh... I tend to, uh... get stomach cramps whenever I, uh... get really nervous."

He must recall the day earlier in the week when we went to my old place, because he nods in understanding.

"Right. Oh, wait - s-so what're you're so nervous about right now?"

I wince, avoiding his eyes and bowing my head low into my chest as I mumble quietly, "Just thought I'd... y'know... jumped the gun... bit too quickly..."

He laughs softly again. "You _what?_ Here, c'mere," he coaxes, reaching down to drag my head up. He pulls me from my fetal position and pulls me close against him, our naked bodies still damp with perspiration from not long ago, and I immediately feel how arm he still is against my rapidly cooling skin and am comforted by this.

"Now, what was that?" he asks as I bashfully avert my gaze from his, feeling embarrassed for letting that pipe dream out into the light. "You... You think you were _wrong_ about what I was going to ask you?"

I bite my lip, shrugging. "Well... I guess I just... um... projected my own fantasies a bit..."

"Fantasy?" He laughs again, but not for the humour - he sounds shocked. Stunned. "No - no, no, Matty - not a fantasy... I... You weren't wrong."

I blink, finally meeting his eyes. I must look pretty amusing to him, because he's smiling this goofy smile like he can't stop himself.

"Really? I was right?"

"Yeah," he says, "of course you were. I mean - I... I didn't want to assume you would be all gung-ho about it, or even that you'd considered it, but... but yeah. I hesitated for so long because... well, I didn't know how you'd feel about it. You know - moving to an entirely new, different country where you don't know anyone, just to be with _me_... It's... I thought maybe you'd consider it to be too much like what happened with John..."

I quickly whip my head back and forth. "No - not at all... I mean, realistically, it's not like I know anyone _here_ either, yeah? So... to me... It'd just be like starting from scratch, which I'm already gonna be doing anyway, only..." I grin at him, entwining my arms round his neck. "Only over _there_... and with..." I tug him closer, giving him a chaste, smacking kiss on his soft lips. "With the _right_ guy this time."

He pauses, chewing that lower lip in thought for a moment, eying me up skeptically.

"You're sure?" he hazards, and even I can't miss the hope in his voice this time.

Relief washing over me, my grin spreads wider and I pull at him for another. "Yes, Ted - I'm _very_ sure."

He mulls this over in his head for a bit as I continue sucking and teasing his lips; his eyes flutter heavily, and he asks again, "You're really, _really_ sure?"

Giving him an exasperated glare, I intentionally bite a _tad_ too hard on his lower lip, drawing a yelp from him - then I beam coyly into his face.

"_Yes_, Theodore. Like it or not, I'm definitely going back with you."

The look of sheer horror on his face as he rubs his poor, sore lip is priceless. "Um... Hang on... Now _I'm _not so sure..."

"Oh, stuff it and c'mere," I giggle, and smother him with more kisses - until he simply _can't_ say no again. After making my way lower and lower whilst he tries to dodge my demanding mouth, he becomes _quite_ agreeable.

In fact, as I suck him off, sending him sailing to those heights of climactic euphoria again with my eager tongue and sneaky teeth, my moaning, hungry mouth and blatant worship of his delectable cock, the only words he can seem to still remember through the blinding fog of his orgasm are a desperately cried, "Oh yes, Matty - _yesssss!_"

I rather like his answer _this_ time.

So, at his more-than-eager acceptance of this agreement, I spend hours the following day on the Internet whilst he's at work, researching how to go about getting permission to enter the States with him. It's a bit frustrating, since I'm not very familiar with all the terms and what they're supposed to mean - perhaps yet another aspect to life that generally everyone else knows about whilst I've been led along by someone else - and this slow process combined with my omnipresent self-doubt just makes this entire situation seem more hopeless than it probably is in reality; the fear that I'm not good enough in some way I don't even know about to qualify for being allowed to live there with him - let alone understand all these bloody terms and laws and conditions - starts consuming all my initial excitement over this mutual dream of ours. But I refuse to let time constraints, money or definitions become issues - I"ll simply figure out a different way, then.... a more _clever_ way...

So Friday night, as I tell Ted all I've discovered (and all that I'm still clueless about, which takes much longer to get through just by sheer size comparison) over red wine at Judy's, we both begin to look forward to his inevitable return and my expected accompaniment with more anticipation - and with his assurances that we'll figure it out together, so I won't have to feel so stupid on my own, I actually start to feel... _giddy_ again about the prospect of a new life together.

And then we get back to the suite, and Ted's cell rings in the pocket of his brown suit jacket.

"Aw crap," he groans mockingly when he looks at the screen. "Brian - my daily harassing phone call about whether I've gotten laid or not."

"Have you told him you have yet?" I tease. "Tell 'im to go 'way, 'cos you're about to get very lucky and he's interrupting..."

Ted lets out a whine of discontent - for we both know he's going to answer, but my sultry glance and gesture to meet me in the bedroom when he's done talking are just making it that much harder for him to hit that answer button...

I leave the bedroom door open as Ted takes his call in the kitchen, half listening to the same type of conversation he usually has with his boss. Meanwhile, I quickly scurry out of my current clothes and slip into his favourite stretchy red shirt...

And nothing else.

As I'm only absently hearing the half of the conversation I'm used to hearing on this end at first, I instantly am able to detect the unusual edge to Ted's voice suddenly, causing me to freeze up and pay closer attention to his words...

"So you _did_ take it then? Well, that's... What?... Jesus, Brian! That's fantastic! With that much money, we could augment the firm even more, maybe open another branch somewhere in Europe in a few years - I hear Italy has loads of advertising opportunities, and they're not as strict about some aspects to--... What?... Oh, and why's that?..._What!?_... You're kidding me!... Oh my _God,_ Brian! That's... That's almost half the goddamn _company!_... No, I'm not exaggerating, that's a huge fucking loss!... So what're you gonna do now?"

A long, deathly silence permeates the suite, before being broken again by his sharply snapping, "_What?_... What the _fuck_ do you mean, `we'? Not as in, you and m--... _What!?_... But I've only got three more weeks, what's the difference if I--... _Ricky!?_ What the fuck's _he_ gonna do?! He's a goddamn _mess_ without me, Bri, he needs me _here_ to--... No, I'm not gonna just drop everything now and come back to--... _Tomorrow!?_... Fuck you, Brian, I'm can't just--.... No, I mean I _can't_.... Look, you don't understand, Brian, it's not just work, and it's not just about me anymore, okay? I'm right in the middle of something really fucking huge right now, and I--... Fuck you, I'm _serious!_... I won't - I can't just--... I'm not gonna do that, I'm not gonna leave him right in the middle of this, Brian, he's too goddamn important to me to just set aside for later - no _you_ listen! I am _not_ your beck and call boy, I'm not one of your precious lackeys, I'm not your yes-man or anything else of the sort. I'm not Michael either, so you can just _forget_ being able to _count_ on me like you relied so much on him whenever you needed someone else to commiserate with - _I'm_ not interested! We've _never_ been close enough for me to give in to you all the time like he does. I have my own life, my own issues, and unlike Michael, I am _not_ gonna let you trample all over them just because you wanna line your pockets a bit more heavily than usual! I'm in the middle of a crisis of my own here, which I don't expect you to give a shit about, but all I ask is the courtesy to let me finish these last three fucking weeks - and if you're still unwilling to do that, there _are_ other options for me to take, you know. But I'm not gonna just drop this situation I'm in and run back home at your orders because, quite frankly, _he's_ more important to me than you or any goddamn _job_ will ever be!... You hear me?!... Yeah, I'm done!... Wh--... Brian? Bri--god_damn_it! Don't you give me an ultimatum like that and just hang up, you _prick_, fuck _you!_"

And with the last words, I hear a sharp, startling din from the kitchen, like a whole cupboard full of cutlery has been chucked to the ground.

And then nothing. Nothing at all.

The silence in the suite is deafening. I nearly scare myself out of my skin when I hear my own slight, shaky breathing, just now realising that I've been holding it in since Ted's voice changed...

I shakily pull my trousers back on and, numbly, leave the bedroom. Though I know there's countless currents of fury running through him right now, as was obvious from his side of the argument, I think it's a testament to our bond that I don't feel any fear to go to him even if he's in this state - at least, not fear for myself; though, I do fear what he has done or could do to himself...

Making my way to the kitchen, I rally the invisible troops in my head to hold their chins up and keep marching - we _will_ make it this time.

I find Ted just inside the kitchen, sitting on the floor with his back against the wall. His head hangs low as he stares at the silent phone still clutched in his white-knuckled hand. On the other side of the room, near the sink, are the remains of several smashed white plates on the floor.

He doesn't seem to notice or register my presence, but as I stand in front of him and reach down to rest a hand lightly on his head, he doesn't flinch or jump at all. Instead, he lifts his own hand and catches mine in it before I reach his hair, clutching it tightly against his cheek.

I kneel down in front of him, heart-broken to see the look of absolute shock, confusion and anger on his face.

Despite this messy combination of feelings inside of him - and the honestly shattered one in myself - I muster a small smile and manage, "You have to go." Not as a question, but voicing the very real facts blocking us from our dream.

As if on auto-pilot, his head bobs up and down. "Brian took that deal," he explains, his voice hollow and distant. "The one so many in the company were against... Almost half the agency quit when they found out... Now... He says... He says he needs me back there... Help him find new people... Replacements... Wants me to do the paperwork for all the new hires.... Money issues... He... He booked me a flight back..." His eyes squeeze shut tightly in pain. "It's... It leaves... _tomorrow_..."

The air leaves my lungs in an unintentional rush, my body twitching in a sudden muscle spasm as I try to digest this new information...

"He says," he goes on helplessly, now less distant - but achingly more emotional, "he says if I'm not on it... If he goes to the airport to pick me up and I'm not on the correct flight... it's _my_ job too..."

I watch his fingers flex around the phone, feel them around my hand. The words swimming hazily through my mind, I finally make myself nod once in response.

And when I get over the initial shock, my head somehow finds a way to wrap around this dilemma - and immediately it begins working on the beginnings of new plans... very loose and vague, not quite what I had in mind before, but... at this point, I suppose anything will do, eh?

Just as I'm working this out on my own - refusing to allow these obstacles to tear us down like this - Ted suddenly bursts out ferociously, "_No!_ No, forget it, _fuck_ him! _Fuck_ that goddamn agency, fuck Brian and his selfish, uncaring attitude - fuck it all! I'm not going back!"

It's obvious he's becoming hysterical, so to calm this fierce storm inside of him, I raise myself a bit and take him in my arms, shushing him gently as I pull him into my embrace and hold onto him tightly. Within seconds, he's grasping my waist, desperately bawling into my stomach that he won't leave me, he won't let Brian drag him back now, he can't just go away and leave me on my own after all we were going to do...

I simply hold onto him, stroking his hair and kissing the top of his head, letting him get his frustration out.

For once, frustration over me that has nothing to do with anything _I've_ done - and not nearly in the same manner as I'm used to. Instead of the cursing, degrading names and fierce blows, I hear only Ted's crying, feel only his relentless hold on me that is the one comfort in all of this new problem.

And it's this loving, heartbroken embrace which gives me new strength - spurring me on to pull back from him slightly, lean low to come close to his ear, and whisper to him firmly, "You aren't leaving me behind. Listen to me. You _are_ going back early - to help your boss and friend. But you won't be leaving me. I promise. I can say this, you see, because just after you go, I swear I'll be right behind you. No matter what, I _will_ get there."

At this, his crying softens, abating slowly as he regains control of himself through concentrating on my sure voice and my steady touch. When he looks up at me finally with tear-stained cheeks, he is the perfect picture expression of "heartbroken." I gaze lovingly at him, wiping those hurt - and hurtful - tears away and forcing my smile to return. To assure him. To comfort him. To protect him as he's been doing for me all this time...

"I'll find a way there," I tell him quietly. "You won't get rid of me that easily, Theodore. Tomorrow, I'll see you off... and then, I'll start doing whatever it is I need to do to get my arse over there. Y'hear me?"

Staring into my eyes, Ted looks as if he's desperate enough to believe anything that tumbles from my lips. So, I tell him straight out, "You've told me before you'd do anything for me, yes?"

He nods dumbly, watching me like a hawk despite the clueless expression.

""Well... I believe you. Now, you need... to get back home... get things straightened out... because despite all you say, I know you love your job, and I know you like working for Brian. If it weren't for him sending you here, I never would've met you in the first place. So you're going back there at his command - to thank him for this opportunity by helping him figure this whole mess out.

"And whilst you do that... I'll be here - but I promise you, I will not stop at _anything_ until I'm next to you again. I want you to do this for me, okay? I want you to do what you have to do so you can keep your job. Leave the rest up to me."

When he starts to lower his head and mutter something nasty about Brian, I catch his chin and lift it again, leaning close to come within an inch of his face.

"And I'll prove to _you_... that I'd do anything... for _you_. I'll figure something out. I promise."

Gazing at me like a wounded child, he sniffles and whimpers, partly pitiful - but mostly just too sweetly - "You would? For... For _me?_"

I smile at him - and this time, it's not forced. It's genuine. I simply cannot stay angry, miserable or hopeless when in the presence of this man. I think that probably says about a lot about us - individually, and with each other as well.

Bringing each other that ultimate happiness saved only for the truest of souls who are meant to be together. This is right and this is our life - _our_... _life_. No bloody unknown amount of time apart, nor any bloody huge body of water like a silly _ocean_ is going to be stronger than me; I've instantly become the most stubborn bastard on the face of the earth - because my words to him are more real to me than I can explain.

Just as he cherishes me like some delicate, precious flower or jewel, he's my own adoring, adorable prince - and I'll be damned if I let anything keep me away from him.

"I would," I whisper to him gently. "I would, and i will. And I know I can, even on my own. Because you have faith in me. Right? And with that motivation, I can do whatever it takes to be with you again. All you have to do... well, you already do it, don't you? Just believe in me...eh?"


	18. Chapter 18 Passion

Warning: more smut

18 - Passion

_Ted:_

Though my insides are still trembling from the flash of unstoppable fury over Brian's audacity to order me around like another one of his brainless lackeys, I can feel the warmth of Matty's embrace overpowering the frustration that rarely manages to work me into such a state. His hold is much more inviting, even more convincing, in fact, than the other option of numbness that seems to come knocking when the anger subsides. And this quiet, but still powerful, urging of his to mesh with his placid air eventually leads somewhere else a bit... unexpected, but not unpleasantly so.

The knowledge that I'll not be able to feel him against me, at least for the immediately foreseeable future, is the only allure I need to pull him closer to me, easing him down into my lap on the floor and clinging to him, knowing I'm probably smothering him – but he seems to welcome this suddenly desperate mauling, not once attempting to stop me or resist. There are plenty more reasons to give into groping him – that gorgeous face, those pleading eyes, the taste of his lips and scent of his faintly damp skin – but all I need is this panic over losing him to drive me into yanking him to me, wrapping my arms around him, covering his mouth with my own for a deep, needy kiss.

Finally my breath is leaving my lungs at a rapid pace for an entirely different, better reason than a hysterical reaction to such a blatant demand I don't want to carry out – this time, I'm overcome with my longing for him, to feel myself drowning in his beauty and reciprocating affection.

But the rumbling storm that threatens to overtake me is eased and abates the moment Matty's pulls away slightly, whispering gently, "We'll need to start getting packed up, then."

Reluctantly, as I'd much rather spend the next several hours holding him like this and go home empty-handed, I nod my agreement and let him up, taking his offered hand when he holds it out to me. I follow him silently to the bedroom, grateful that he's taken charge of the situation when I haven't needed to ask him to – since I just don't have the strength or will to do it myself.

But now not in his arms, the cold numbness begins to creep into me instead as I follow his lead and stiffly start to open drawers and load up my bags he pulls from the closet with clothing. The room is quiet as we carry on with this ultimately pointless task, and every passing second we spend in silence causes another inch of me to feel frozen in place. Until I'm standing there, a familiar shirt clutched in my hand, unable to move as my eyes glare holes into the material against my skin.

"...Ted?"

The soft voice reaches me across weeks and weeks of previously lived, intentionally ignorant bliss, and my fingers clench around the torn and stained cloth they hold.

A tender hand touches my wrist, a faint intake of breath as Matty blinks at me.

"You... You still have that?"

I squeeze my eyes shut – I can't bear to see that red anymore, just don't want to replay the events from that night in my head... never realizing, as I acted on pure need and impulse, just how shaken I'd been to confront the result of John's nature...

I don't want that – can't bear to take that horrific sight of the same beautiful, talented fingers that create such gorgeous pictures he sees in his mind, that press the perfect keys to create such masterpieces of sound from his own brilliant imagination... covered in blood, reaching out to me to catch him as he crumbles to the ground...

No... No more... No one can be allowed to bring that kind of hurt and pain on him again. Never again. All I'll allow him to feel anymore is my love, my adoration, my encouragement and devotion..

Even across the endless ocean.

And I swear it, I tell myself, as I lift my open eyes to him finally to see him gaping at the shirt he'd been wearing the night he came to me, the very one I hold now. I swear to myself – no more doubts, no more questions, no more second guessing or timid needs for assurance – I _will_ show him, and he _will_ understand, how much I want him.

How much I _need_ him.

His gaze rises to meet mine, so innocent and open; and in an instant, the shirt slips from my fingers, which now clutch his hair, pulling him to me for another thick, drowning kiss. My strong, sudden advance takes him off-guard, but there isn't a hint of resistance or hesitation when my clearly obvious desire engulfs him, surrounding and devouring him as he gives in easily.

Perhaps I'm being a bit too hasty or rough – melodramatic, even – but he doesn't utter a single protest as I haul him over onto the bed, almost stumbling in my urgency. Instead, he reaches back to hold himself up on his elbows when I push him down, losing any inhibitions and disregarding any previously held cautions in a sensitive attempt to not hurt or frighten him. I truly hope, in the back of my mind, that his allowance for me to do this is okay with him – but it's only a fragment of a coherent thought as it's overwhelmed by my unrelenting longing to have him. My hands and mouth and entire body know no bounds anymore as I hungrily overpower the vulnerable – but still not retreating – form below me.

I kneel between his spread legs, arms wrapped possessively around him, as he bears my weight on his arms and kisses me back with as much fervent need as I initiated it with. My hands roam desperately as I try to drink in every inch of him, diving under his shirt to caress the soft skin, not being deterred by the occasional rough spot where a healing cut dares to mar his otherwise perfect flesh. His soft gasps and slight moans fill my ears sweetly as I ravage him, burying my face into his neck and tasting the vague perspiration accumulated there. Fingers skate over rapidly heating skin, feeling the faint quiver of his body as I surge against him, pressing him down further into the mattress as I crawl higher on top of him. Until he's completely flat on his back, looking up into my pained face as I loom over him, still kneeling between his bent, open legs.

As I lift my head from his throat to gaze down at him, I can't help but reach up to draw my fingertips over his sharp cheekbone, touching that lovely sculpted face with as much care as I can muster without going overboard. But my meek attempt to remain subtle dissolves quickly into yet another helplessly devouring kiss, and I can't keep from groaning into his mouth when he lifts his hips from the bed, pressing into me avidly to encourage me, to keep me from pausing in a stalling recollection of sense...

Before I can let that sense invade my urge, then, I'm sliding the soft material over his small chest, tugging it from his slim arms and over his dark head to toss it aside carelessly. I graze my lips blinding over the exposed chest, fingers gliding over smooth skin stretched across the lithe figure that trembles with a sensation apart from fear at my touch. My teeth catch purposefully on a small, dark pink nipple, drawing a whimper of approval from the gasping mouth above me. I close my lips around it, suckling gently as the lone, sultry sound is followed by more, his hip rolling into my grasp as I settle a hand there, while the other remains beneath him, squeezing and massaging his small, taut muscles as it slowly drifts lower.

His long fingers curled in my now messy short hair, Matty gulps in one heaving breath after another as I gradually work my way down to his waist, his voice squeaking out vaguely when my tongue delves provocatively into his small bellybutton while I shift my hands to those covered, bony hips I love holding onto. I easily pry the waistline down over them, kissing them in turn, letting my tongue slide tantalizingly over their alluring shape between planting softer ones over the slightly concave curve of his (non-existent) stomach. I nudge close to him, feeling the heat of his arousal rubbing into my chest as I guide the material down over the deliciously shaped arch of his ass, taking my time to drag my fingers over the firm flesh there. I can hear him whining wordlessly above me, breathless and trembling in anticipation as I savor every second, every centimeter of his body. I pull the pants down his slim thighs, cupping my hands under them as I undress his surely aching erection – and before they even reach his knees, I'm unable to keep myself from closing my mouth around his throbbing member.

Matty instantly cries out as I take him in me, his fingers flexing sporadically in my hair and back curving in such a wanton display of arousal that I just have to steal a quick feel by running my hands over him again, stretching my arms from under his legs to touch the protruding shoulder blades and – if I had any nails – scratching down the length of him again as he bucks his pelvis back, then forward again when I return to cradling his hips. I have to look, to see as much of him as I can, loving every moment I can eat him up – with my eyes _and_ mouth, for that matter. The pants slide easily off his legs, then, as he lifts them at my urging, and spreading him so lewdly in front of and around me makes him that much more appealing in his own clearly expressed wanting. I purposefully suck ever so slightly harder when I feel that heat pooling in my own gut, and one of Matty's hands flies to his lips to stifle a sob of pleasure at my actions, so it gives me the perfect opportunity to release him from my mouth – but only for an instant. I lunge forward on the bed, directly over him, and pull his hand down, my eyes shining as I shake my head, not needing to explain: I want to hear him – every last sigh, every little hiccup, every gorgeous moan he has to offer...

As he slowly obeys, his breathing fast and hard, eyes dark with his desire – and as I study him like this, allowing him to catch his breath while I nuzzle his cheek and neck, I grope blindly for the lube in the bedside drawer. As soon as I have it, I leave retreat to my former position out of his reach, keeping him down with a mere hand caressing his belly, until my fingers are clutching one jutting hip. Without warning, I gulp him into me again, and his slow, throaty groan drives me on to squabble one-handed with the tube. It's a bit difficult to concentrate on a task as tricky as this while Matty's rhythmically thrusting into my mouth – not because of any discomfort, but just because... I _like_ it. His now unrestrained moans and gasps are so goddamn sexy, my hand starts shaking with the effort to stay in control while getting the tube open – I will _not_ fuck him dry, I will _not_ do that to him, no way in hell...

I finally succeed, despite the challenge, and manage to soak my fingers with the lube with no problems – and without hesitation, I increase the pressure on his cock, suckling more fervently as I hum around him – at the same time working my now slick digits insistently into his tight hole.

His reaction to this intrusion, as well as the deep vibrations encompassing his cock, is the hottest cry of sensuality I've ever heard in my actual, real life – dangerously close to those melodramatic wails in porn... only, Matty actually _does_ sound sexy, and he's not trying to put on a show: he simply can't stop himself. Which makes me grin inwardly, of course. His head snaps back and his hips freeze in their motions, allowing me to take control of his body, and I guide that slim, irresistible figure into accepting every last pleasure I give it. I feel his tense muscles quiver around my fingers as I slide them in and out, caressing his weak spot slowly and fully when I reach deep enough. My tongue laps eagerly at his weeping cock, my head bobbing and dipping at a slow pace at first, then gradually increasing in speed and intensity as i feel him getting closer and closer to his climax. The high, shaky whimpers; the deeper, throatier moans; the husky, sultry wordless murmurs as I fondle and caress and suck him – are only making my own need stronger, my own erection aching now, my own desperation to sate this thirst for him growing more urgent and enthralling with every thrust of his body into mine.

Just as I think he's going to give in to my seemingly endless probing, I withdraw my hand and pull away from his rapidly throbbing cock. His loud moan of frustration is cut short, as when I sit up, stilling kneeling between those now naked pale thighs, I grab him by the arms and yank him up with me, crashing into his mouth for a feverish, sloppy kiss. His hands grope at my shoulders, managing to pull hard enough on my shirt to send the first three buttons flying. I hastily undo the rest as he throws himself on my bared chest, demanding fingers raking surprisingly fiercely over my flesh. Before I know it, he's kissing me all over, returning my earlier treatment of his own hardened nubs, and the lovely shivers he sends through me as his little teeth gnaw and powerful tongue scrape over those highly sensitized nerves – it's exquisite, and after tearing the shirt off and tossing it aside, I can't bear to waste anymore time fooling around. I immediately undo my pants, shirking them off as quickly as possible so I can get back to occupying my fidgety hands with touching _him_ instead.

I take him in my arms, then, feeling his aroused body huddling eagerly into mine in a wordless plea to be closer. I kiss him again, as if a man starved, and just barely manage to recover the tube before he's straddling my lap, pushing his hard-on avidly into my stomach as I smooth the lube over my cock. And then my hands are full of him, gripping his hot little ass as he lowers himself onto me – slowly, but deeply, his arm and back muscles taut as he fights to control himself while being penetrated fully. He gasps, cries out repeatedly against my mouth, and I take in those breaths with equally satisfied pants of my own, grasping his hips as he moves, loving the way they roll right into my palms, and feeling the blinding sensation of his gorgeous, tight ass around me.

I push him forcefully back against the headboard, surging into him again and again as he comes down on me, uncaring of the noise we make as we revel in our passionate, needy desires. I can feel his heart racing wildly as I close the gap between our chests, our overheated, sweat-slicked flesh rubbing together fiercely to increase the friction between us. I know in my head that the amount of force behind my now demanding thrusts has gotten close to dangerous, especially considering the circumstances of his being raped not two months ago – but I can't stop, can't hold myself back any longer, can't keep from proving to him how deeply this yearning I have for him runs inside of me.

Not that he's complaining, mind you – if anything, the reckless manner in which I continue to relentlessly impale him only feeds his own desperation to keep me within his body, his hold on me tightening with every stroke, every snap of my hips, his moans becoming more sultry and impassioned the faster I go, and his legs hook around my waist possessively – just as my own hold on him is.

I don't want to hurt him – of course not. But I honestly don't think I am, even as this specific night I find myself completely overwhelmed, losing my rigid control, with this panicked need to keep him with me. The thought behind it, the reason for this hysterical bout of lovemaking, is so infuriating, so devastating to me, that I also feel the unstoppable need to do whatever it takes to keep that reason from entering my mind again. I just don't want to think about it. This moment, this instant, this _second_, this sensation of belonging where and how I am – buried deep inside my beautiful, amazing lover – is so perfect, so right... and I can't bear to think of the starkly blatant fact that, within a matter of hours, I won't be able to feel his body at all – not even just beside me, still and silent, save for the peaceful whispering breaths of sleep.

So to cling to him like this, to love him as powerfully and assuringly as possible, so that he'll remember me, hold onto this feeling for as long as it takes to get him back to me, is the only thing I can think of to do – the only thing I _want_ to do.

I can't lose him now, I think frantically as I grind into him with everything I have – I can't let him go, not yet. Maybe I have my problem with John saying and feeling those exact same things – but it's completely different between us.

Matty _loves_ me, he _wants_ me, he wants to _be_ with me. And I would never raise a hand to him, would never dream of hurting him. I don't believe I'm capable of hurting anyone, at least not physically, but I probably _could_ damage him as John has – considering I _did_ manage to knock the sorry dope out with one punch. But I never _would_ hurt Matty. Even during this frenzied occasion, when being slow and subtle simply will not cut it for me, I unconsciously make sure not to make such a wrong or violent move as to bring him any true pain.

Luckily, by now, his wounds have pretty much all healed, or are already mending too well to be exacerbated to an uncomfortable degree. In fact, caressing his still sore ribs actually seems to be more of a turn-on than a shock of anguish. So I do it continuously, using it as a way to maneuver him around on top of me as I stroke him.

But his lustful reactions and the way he leans his head back with that high, dazed sigh leaking out of him is just too damn erotic for me, and before I realize what I'm doing, I've pulled out to grab him around the waist, hurling him down onto his belly and mounting him from behind. And in my manic, grunting surge to dominate him, to fuck him as hard and insistently as I can, I feel his body writhing beneath mine, and for a second, sense sets in and I hesitate, ready to apologize for being too rough...

But surprisingly, his own stilted, jerking movements are not out of fear or pain – when I pause, he immediately reaches back and grips my arm, pulling at me, encouraging me to go on. And the thin cry of a raw, biting thrill he derives from this, which comes from him when I penetrate him again with a sturdy, potent hitch of my lower half, assures me that he's not forcing this in the least. So when I sit back on my heels and brace his hips with my possessive hold, I feel no shame or reluctance as I start pumping into his leaning, prone body – and though his panting, wheezing gasps and sharp, shrill cries could very well _sound_ like he's being tortured, the fact that his gyrating shape and openly exposed ass are grinding into me with every stroke proves that he feels this burning, dire need as well. I watch him move as if in a dream – an extremely lascivious _wet_ dream, of course – and my thrusts only become more invasive as he rides my cock so wantonly, calling out my name and begging me for more...

His longing body and all-too-convincing pleas are all it takes, then, for me to hunch over his frail shoulders, hovering above his arched back as I pound into that sweet little ass he sticks out so pointedly for me. And within minutes, I'm clutching him to me, yelling into the back of his neck as I feel him tightening around me, squeezing me harshly as one of my hands busies itself with satisfying his own aching arousal. And when I feel his muscles tensing, his back pushing into my chest and stomach, his pulsing cock oozing warm, sticky liquid as he moans so seductively, I plunge into him a final time and release all my pent-up frustration and aggressive cravings as I come inside of him. Clinging, grasping limbs, soaked in our prominent lust for one another, I collapse on top of him and give into my primal urge to just _have_ him – the politically incorrect ownership and possessiveness seeping into me, by the gallons – and for once, he doesn't seem to mind at all.

And as I mindlessly, breathlessly whisper to him of my determination to have him all to myself, keep him right next to me forever...

It doesn't occur to me until the words are out, hanging in the air, lingering and waiting to be misinterpreted, just what a stupid mistake it was to say it... at least, to put it like _that..._

I should know better by now – hasn't he already told me to just trust him?

He squirms around in my smothering embrace to face me, smiling luridly back at me. His arms locked around my neck now, he pulls me down for another stifling kiss, whispering into my mouth, "I'm all yours, then..."

And with that kiss, I'm finally sure of how Matty works – how he's always worked. I'm sure of it. I understand him fully now, and this knowledge only draws me in deeper to his generally shy – but secretly quite salacious, sensual – mind.

He's not _afraid_ of sex as I figured he would be, and he's not a completely indiscriminate _slut_ either, as John's accused him of being. He _loves_ this. Because – well, let's be honest – because of _me_.

It's not that he hasn't wanted to _be_ wanted – it's just that... he was waiting for the right lover to find him. He thought he'd found him in John, but that eventually turned sour. Ruining his hopes and desires to be treated well, to be loved. But trapped in that mess, he could do nothing else _but_ wait for someone to come along and save him; not just from John and his violence – but from this hollow, vacuous feeling inside of him, which makes him feel like he's unable to be loved at all.

And now, I've found him. I've found him, and I _have_ him.

I try to drown myself in his kisses, in his warm thighs surrounding me and thick, heavy breaths flowing in and out of my mouth.

But the nagging knowledge is still there, somewhere in the back of my head – _for how much longer?_

_Matty:_

I really don't blame Ted for feeling too anxious to sleep, but personally, after a shag like that, I'm a useless puddle of exorcised demonic sexual satisfaction, unable to even keep my eyes open. Don't get me wrong – it's nothing like what's happened to me before, and I _do_ still adore how sweet and gentle he is with me most of the time.

But, bloody hell, once in a while, every so often, it's still amazing to let go and indulge in a bit of pure and simple _fucking_, however _not_ pure and actually complicated it can be. Feelings and emotions aside, though... _fuck me _(and did he ever!), was that good...

But after a quick power nap on my chest, Ted's awake and suddenly wired, pacing the room, collecting things to pack away, gnawing his fingernails... and all I can do is lie here and feel like I'm still catching my breath an hour later, even as I drift in and out of vague dreams.

At one point, I catch him leaning over the bureau, glaring at the top of it with his shoulders hunched and head bowed low – hands clenched into fierce fists.

He's so angry at Brian right now, so fretful over leaving me, so worried for what will happen to me concerning John and how I'll go about finding a way to get over there...

And all _I_ can think about is the sorry fact that this bloke has no fucking clue what a bloody amazing lover he is. He has no idea, does he? There's the treatment, the support, the encouragement to be myself and all that – and then there's the soul-sucking, heart-stopping, cock-hardening devotion and _very_ evident hankering he has to overpower me in those moments of an uncontrollable, libido-charged frenzy.

I was always a bit fearful when John got like that – but that's because I knew he _meant_ it, very literally, in every possible way.

Ted, on the other hand... Well, God, from him, it's just plain _sexy_.

I smile to myself when I think about this, still bemused that he's so clueless to his own allure...

And as my eyes flutter shut and my mind starts floating off to dream about more encounters like this in the future, I can faintly make out his voice from the kitchen. I strain to hear his words, but all I get is a mumbled sort of apology to someone on the other end of his cell phone – Brian, most likely. They're discussing details now, working out the specific arrangement of the flight...

And somewhere in there, Ted asks a favor: "I need you to do something for me, please – I need you to keep the suite. Just for a few more weeks. I know it doesn't make sense, it's a lot of money and it's asking a lot – but _please_, if you're going to make me do this, then at least let me have my reasons and just keep renting it for now. You can take it out of my pay if you want, just... please, I need this... I can't explain right now, but I really, really need it..."

I stuff my face in my pillow, groaning to myself; there he goes, being all self-sacrificing again...

I finally find myself in that lovely in-between state, unaware of everything going on around me, but still taking in some of what my senses can pick up on. Meanwhile, my mind is showing me lovely abstract images, clouds of mist and color, pure imaginative sensations...

"Yeah," comes Ted's voice, remarkably close. This comforts me and I continue letting myself fall into that gorgeous, dark void...

"It's Ted... Look, um... I know Brian told you what's going on, but I needed to get hold of you, for my own sake... I need you to do me a favor, okay?... It may seem... out of the ordinary, but this is really fucking important to me. Okay?... Um... There's this guy..."

A faint shifting of weight beside me, the mattress dipping as he sits beside my semi-slumbering form. Gentle fingers brush the side of my cheek, drawing a slight mumble and sleepy smile from me, eyes still refusing to open.

"He's... He's really special to me... but he's kind of... in a bad situation. I have to go back, and he's staying here while I'm home. We're both gonna work on finding a way to allow him into the country – er, _my_ country – so he can come stay with me, but... um... For now... there's nothing I can do from home... And I'm... pretty nervous about leaving him..."

There's a heavy sigh, his fingers stroking my hair. Settled and content, he could be calling John to tell him he has me right where he wants me – though I know that's just laughable – and I wouldn't care. I'm so bloody peaceful right now, I vaguely think I could never wake up again and I would die happy...

"I'm in love with him, Ricky – and I'm really scared to leave him. I'm already asking a lot from Brian to keep him in the suite... and I know you're gonna be busy with the agency, but... I'm desperate here. Please could you... just keep an eye on him for me? I just... need to know he's safe..."

I feel him lean slightly against me and instinctively curl closer, cuddling against his leg as I let out a soft sigh and feel myself shutting down.

He should know better, I think senselessly. I'm perfectly safe – he's right here... isn't he?


	19. Chapter 19 Not So Easily

19 - Not So Easily

_Matty:_

After only a few weeks of waking up next to Ted, even six consecutive days of waking up alone can't get me used to the empty space beside me in bed now. I have to take a few moments to remind myself of where I am, why I'm still here – and then, just to start the morning off on a cheerful note, remind myself why he's not here.

Cor... I'm not used to this, and it's making me too sarcastic. I doubt I'll ever get used to not being with him.

In a way, though, I actually _am_ glad that I won't get used to it. All the more reason to find a way there.

I've made a routine for myself, so I can let my mind wander to better times whilst I'm going about my daily tasks, keep that stamina and determination up to do what I need to in order to go on despite this hopefully temporary depression and loneliness. I try to look at it as my short-term experience of living on my own, which I've never done before – but I can honestly say, without hesitation, I don't think I'd enjoy it very much permanently.

But like the days before this one, I drag myself out of bed and get myself moving for a shower, dress in clean clothes, then make myself some breakfast – all the while carrying on an imagined dialogue in my head between myself and my absent lover: the same sorts of things we used to talk about when he was here.

But the goodbye part, where he goes off to work and I'm left alone again – truly alone, even in the daydream – causes an open and confused moment where I'm not sure what to do or where to go next.

Today, however, that moment doesn't last very long, as I already have a plan.

The first few days alone I spent on the computer, desperately trying to comprehend the nuances of getting a visa or something – but I"m not a professional and don't even have an inkling of a chance of finding a job _there_ from _here_. Or so I think, anyway. I took some chances anyway and spent _hours_ filling out online applications, even knowing it would be a while until I hear back from anyone. And despite not having much hope for any positive responses. I even found the website of the agency Brian owns and studied the application – only to be put off more by needing to send a portfolio.

But that's half the reason I need to do what I'm doing today: using public transit, since I've no car (or even license) to speak of, I'm off this morning to the university where John works – only to use the building as a reference point, mind you, in recalling where the art gallery is.

Yesterday, whilst going through the application, I called the number of the gallery listed on the receipt printouts Ted left with me, and the owner was more than happy to give me copies of the copies he'd made of my sold works – which he also keeps for future references, such as this, he said. It won't be stellar material, but it'll have to suffice for an actual portfolio – I'm hoping that the fact that they all were _sold_ will make up for the lack of appropriate pieces. But from here on out, I decide, I make a mental note to copy anything up for sale from the master work itself. This is quite a long shot anyway, but at least I'll have the whole portfolio itself then, to use on other occasions as well. I decide to also put in my bid for various other positions around Ted's area, hoping that maybe _one_ will at least stick me in a mailroom, if nothing else...

At the gallery, the owner is more than helpful with getting me sorted – he even makes out a cheque for me for a painting that sold only days before. As I wasn't expecting it and don't have any of my new information on me, I ask him not to send the money electronically, now that I have a new, separate account from John.

With more money and my decent copies in hand, I stroll past the school again, and wait for another hour or so until my homebound bus picks me up.

Having lunch alone in a small cafe is nothing short of dull, so I use the silence to my advantage and start working on more future pieces. Then I wander around to look in different shops to find a scanner to rent. It takes me a few hours, but I finally find a cheap one which the salesman says he would like to sell to me – but I have no need for one right now for more than just this. I prefer to travel light, after all, and if I plan on going to the States, I don't want to have to lug a huge piece of machinery along. He's disappointed, but I insist I only need it for a few days.

The rest of the night is spent figuring out how to make the bloody piece of crap work with Ted's rented PC, and when I finally succeed, it takes another two hours to fix up and send my fully completed application and portfolio out to the different companies I've discovered online. And then...

I sit back and stare at the computer, waiting for something to happen despite knowing nothing will. Even if it does, it'll be a while before I hear anything from anyone.

So, to waste some more time – and cash – I go to Judy's and set out on drinking myself bloody wasted. Just so I can sleep tonight.

Around four in the morning, I get a phone call that rips me from an already disturbed sleep. Stumbling off the couch – as I'd been too shit-faced to make it to the bed, or to remember where the bed _was_, really – I don't even think clearly enough to form a coherent sentence apart from the roughly blurted, "Whatchoo want, eh?"

There's a bemused laugh on the other end, and I'm suddenly sitting bolt upright, awake and alert, any hint of sleepiness gone when I recognise that voice.

"I take it I woke you, huh? Sorry about that..."

"No, no," I assure him hurriedly, already feeling breathless. God, I've been dying to hear that laugh... "No bother, of course. Um... Um... Hi."

"Hi," he chuckles, clearly smiling on the other end – on the other side of the ocean. "I guess it's pretty early there."

"Er..." I scratch at my mop of black hair and glance at the digital clock, barely seeing the 4:11. "Yeah, but, well... It's fine, I don't care, really, I don't. Just..." I lower my head and smile bashfully, as if he's right here in front of me. "It's just good to hear your voice."

I'm sure he can hear the relief in my tone, as I can feel him smiling.

"Yeah... I know I said I'd wait till the weekend, but... well, I just couldn't..."

"That's quite all right," I assure him, chest already aching. "If it wasn't going to be you, it would've been me. Well, er, if I hadn't passed out drunk, that is..."

"Drunk, huh? I leave for a week and you're already out partying?"

I know he's joking, but I can't hep but insist, "Oh, bloody hell, no – just need a sedative to be able to sleep these days."

"Yeah... I, uh... know the feeling." He heaves a breath of his own exasperation, then asks, "So, make any headway yet?"

And so, with a groan, I proceed to spend the next hour amusing Ted with my infuriating stories of the previous week – all the headaches and slight hopes, all the minor details I can't get around and the unexpected surprises like the cheque from the gallery. Likewise, he fills me in on all the so-called "boring crap" Brian has him doing to restaff their office, being sure to include a different degrading name for his boss every time he mentions him. I'm up and pacing the room energetically the entire time, almost starting to feel _normal_ again, as if he's right in the room with me like usual.

So when five-thirty rolls around and he informs me he needs to cut it short for the sake of having enough cash to call again _next_ week, I feel as if someone's just knocked me off a thirty-story building. Saying that it's hard to say goodbye is a pretty damn mild way of describing it, but to keep from thinking back on the tearful one we shared at the airport last Saturday, I have to keep it light. So yes, it's damn hard to say it, but at least this telephonic encounter gives me some focus – as well as another happy memory to dwell on during my time away from him. Though it also hurts, seeing as how...

Cor... I really miss that bugger.

The following few weeks consist of more job-hunting over the computer, more frustration with trying to contact US Immigration offices, more heart-aching phone calls in the week hours of the morning, and taking out all my emotions on newly bought empty canvases – whilst I watch my "nest egg" dwindle little by little in the bank. I'm not near going broke, mind you, but I want to keep that four-figure number up there, so I feel the urge to replenish it somehow whilst waiting anxiously to hear back from _someone_, whether it's about a job or approval to move to the States. Ted says he wishes he could be of more help on his end, but Brian has him so swamped with multiple departments' new applicants that he hardly has any time to do his _own_ work. For some reason – perhaps my certainty that it won't even get more than half a glance – I'm too embarrassed to mention that I've submitted my own resume and portfolio to their agency; he must not have noticed either, because he doesn't mention it at all himself.

Three weeks in, however, I'm sure I need to do something about replacing the cash I've been drinking away to put off thinking about how much I miss him. Judy tries to console me when she can, but it tends to get a bit too busy for pep talks and sympathetic cooing as the nights drag on.

Finally, the Friday before Ted's original departure date, I find myself back on the bus heading to the university. I haven't called the gallery before-hand this time, but I've really got no other choice but to show up and hope for the best.

Luckily, the owner is pleasantly surprised to see me, and his eyes light up when he notices the covered canvases I carry under my arm.

"Oh, do you have more offerings for me, then?" he asks, nearly rubbing his hands together in anticipation as he leads me to his office.

He's a nice bloke and all – but something about his awkward appearance and strange demeanor makes me imagine him stroking a cat and grinning maliciously from a stolen throne as he attempts to take over the world... or the art world, as it were....

Menacing air aside, though, the man's lovely to do business with, and he praises my work – perhaps even a tad _too_ much, I think modestly – before eagerly accepting them and going round to the other side of his desk to fetch me yet another cheque from the most recent sale.

"I tried to get hold of you," he tells me as he digs around for a pen to make it out. "But it only just sold last night, and by the time I rang you up today, you must have already been on your way here."

I thank him profusely for his efforts – and then am startled by the way he reaches out to grip my hand when he holds out the cheque to me.

The look on his face, the concern in his eyes, is so plain and obvious that I'm taken aback as he asks outright, "Are you holding up well, lad? You've got me a bit worried, you do."

When I ask what he means, he gestures vaguely to the paintings I've just brought. "Don't misunderstand me – they're still lovely pieces, as usual, and I'm sure they'll sell rather quickly, as I've been pushing customers to buy more locally-based works to support our up-and-coming artists, and yours are quite fetching, to say the least, but..."

I raise my eyebrows, searching his face for any hint of an explanation to his earlier question. "`But'...?"

He sighs and pats my hand – like some old grey granny fretting over the misguided youth of today. "But the last two times I've seen you, you've seemed quite... sad, really. And the pieces themselves – while they're very lovely indeed, well... Well, they just carry such a... a _darker_ air to them. Much darker than your previous work."

I blink, startled. He truly _is_ quite a connoisseur, isn't he? Able to detect those feelings from merely a glance? He's evidently been doing this for far too many years...

"I just sense that you've been a bit isolated recently."

I can't help but scoff at that, but at his reaction of confusion, I can only utter, "Erm... I've been a bit lonely... but... not nearly as isolated as I was before."

"Oh, but there was such _hope_ there before," he insists passionately, gripping my hand tighter. "There was always a touch of detachment to your work – a sort of... _longing_, if you will. A desperation. But there was always a hope behind all the melancholy symbolism. A certainty of something bigger and better to come. But some of these... They just seem much more... well... _bleak_. As if you've given up that hope that kept you thriving for so long."

I stare back at him silently, dumbfounded by the realisation that... I think... he may be _right_.

As much as I've hoped and wished and even _prayed_ for this dream to live with Ted to come true, perhaps this solitary existence and stagnation has finally... won me over.

I find myself getting choked up over the thought of not being able to do this – not pulling this off on my own. Blimey, if it's even subconsciously seeming into my bloody _paintings_...

"You haven't, have you?"

I jerk back into reality at his question, trying to get a grip on my raw emotions. It takes me a moment, but I finally swallow the lump in my throat to answer, shakily, "Of course not. I can't do that. Not yet."

However, as I sit on the bus less than an hour later and stare blankly at the scenery tumbling by out the window, the cheque secure in my pocket but my anxiety mounting with every gained mile, I can't help but wonder if my life is _still_ passing me by with every day that ends as I – once again – do nothing but _wait_ for other people to do things.

When the hell will this bloody waiting _end?_

I'm so absorbed in my own dreary thoughts that I don't even pay attention as I deposit the majority of the cheque into my account at the bank – don't bother to recount how much I've requested to be handed to me in cash, don't bother to lift my head as I stroll out of the building, don't bother to take my eyes off my feet as they automatically make their way to Judy's. But I'm suddenly here, not at the bar itself, but sitting in the very booth I've been purposefully avoiding since Ted left. Nursing a vodka tonic and staring at the empty space across from me.

This must have been what it felt like for him, every night I didn't show.

Bloody hell... I need to hear his voice again. Need to apologise for putting him through this kind of hell, even if it hadn't actually been "my fault" – I still have the urge to say I'm sorry he had to feel like _this_ so many times. Never being sure if you'll be able to see the one you love again... That endless wondering, the constant _what if_'s, the doubt and despair that overwhelms you as you try to accept the possibility that the last time you saw them may very well have _been_ the _last time_.

It takes everything I have in me to keep from bawling straight into my drink. I let a few tears slip by silently to appease my aching sorrow that's dying to be let out, but I simply can't allow myself to become hysterical in a public pub. Judy would be devastated to see me so miserable – especially in _her_ pub.

I quickly wipe my face clear and take a deep, soothing breath, expelling it with the promise to myself that I won't give up yet – I can't just abandon the whole deal all together because of my own despondency – I could never possibly forget so easily, being loved and cared for so meticulously, so passionately...

But for some reason, I just can't rally myself out of this lingering depression either; can't kick my own arse into gear to keep on with it.

Maybe not tonight, then, I think gloomily. Maybe I'm too weak after nearly a month of no progress – need some downtime to wallow in misery and recharge my batteries. Need some hardcore pity time, moping, some genuine pouting that things aren't happening quickly or easily enough as I'd like them to.

Maybe I just need some time to think negatively for a while. To be sad over the fact that – well – I'm... _sad_.

So I start off my weekend by leaving the pub early, heading blindly for the rented suite, with no other intentions but to lay in bed, in the dark, and bawl my eyes out... until I can hear his voice on the other end of that bloody phone again.

It sounds like a good plan – but I only get halfway through it before I'm rudely interrupted – and not by who or what I _hope_ would interrupt me.

I just make it inside the suite and lean back on the closed door behind me, letting out a heavy breath and eying up the door to the bedroom with listless hope – if there even _is_ such a thing (if not, I've just invented it, so _there_).

I set out dragging my now aching, weary bones across the room, feeling a slight urgency to climb into that soft bed, crawl under the comforting duvet, hiding my face and body and _everything_ from the rest of an uncaring world, a world which seems to have turned its back on me and all my wasted, pathetic efforts...

When there's a sudden knock at the door.

I'm so startled that I literally jump, spinning around to glare at the thing like it's just called me a bastard. I blink a few times, managing to convince myself that I've just had a very vivid auditory hallucination – who the hell would come to see _me_ anyway? I don't _know_ anyone! Unless it's Judy. Maybe she followed me over, having seen my miserable, unkempt state, and is here to check up on me without the typical hassles and interruptions at the pub...

Or...

My heart leaps again as another knock makes me gasp – but it's not out of edginess or fear this time... I suddenly have an insane thought in my head – perhaps because I want it so badly that sense finds no opening into my brain...

Maybe... he's come back for me... tired of waiting as well, unable to take the separation any longer – maybe he's run out on Brian (or, better yet, Brian's seen how pathetic _he_ is and lets him come) and flew all this way without telling me, wanting it to be a surprise, a cheerful maneuver to twist me out of my sinking depression...

I'm already grinning from ear to ear as I grope for the handle and, so desperate that I'm not thinking, yank the door open, gasping hopefully, "Teddy, you're ba--"

But the words die on my lips and my heart remains in my throat as I'm suddenly faced with... _him_. And that bloody smug smirk.

"What's this now?"

I gulp and my hand tightens on the door handle.

"Your precious little loverboy up and abandoned you, did he? Horrible, isn't it?"

My body inadvertently shudders, then begins to tremble sporadically – my head screaming at me to slam the bloody door on him, but my body refusing to receive the signals.

"What a bloody shame." He's inside now – his body too close, my head tilted back to gape up at him, unbelieving, utterly bewildered...

"Guess there's nothin' else for you to do..."

"H-How did you... f-find... m-me...?" My voice is barely above a whisper, too weak to be any louder over the rock in my throat.

He smiles down at me – oh, you bloody oily bugger, so sure of yourself now, so fucking confident when I'm _alone_ – and strokes my cheek with a deceivingly soft touch.

"...but come home now."

I'm automatically shaking my head, eyes like saucers; I may be stunned, even terrified – but even in this state, I know what I _really_ want. Even if my words can't say it very clearly: "I... n-not... b-back... No, I w-won't..."

His hand shifts to my hair when I try to stumble backward, fisting around my dark locks to jerk me back to his sickeningly grinning mouth.

"Let me rephrase that for you, love." With every word, he gives a painful, sharp tug, until I'm reaching back to claw at his fist and gasping against the discomfort.

"_Come – home – now_."  
Not a request, not a plea, as the night he was drunk at our old flat – this, his actions scream clearly, is an _order_.

"No more games," he warns, his other hand wrapping round my exposed throat as he kicks the door shut and slams me back against it. His smile twists into a snarl, and my knees buckle, my legs feeling like jelly.

"_**NOW**_**."**

**"**No!" I yell back, suddenly finding an iota of confidence and perseverance somewhere inside of me. "I won't go _anywhere_ with you! It's bloody _over_, John, get it through your thick fucking skull! I told you before, and I meant it: it's _over!_"

His eyes grow huge, glaring at me viciously. "Oh, you _will_ regret that, little one – you will _so_ regret you ever tried to walk out on me--"

"So that's it, is it?" I challenge him, hands planted flat, palms down, against the hard wood behind me at waist level. I can't believe I'm about to say this, but before I can stop myself, I'm blurting it out:

"Some stupid bloody `If I can't have you, no one can' bollocks?! Then you might as well kill me right now, because I'm never going back there, John, _never!_ I'd rather be _dead_ than go back to you!"

And the most surprising thing to me, after I've gone and said it, is how much I _mean_ it.

John obviously takes note of this as well. Though, unfortunately, it doesn't seem to change his mind. He leans in close to my face, the snarl easing away to be replaced by an even more disturbing, calm smile, his eyes half-lidded.

"_That_, my love, can be arranged."


	20. Chapter 20 Suffocation

20 - Suffocation

_Ted:_

Why the hell am I still here? I ask you – no, I ask myself – _why?_

It's been a week now, and I haven't heard a word from Matty. I sit at my desk at work, gnawing uncountable toothmarks into a pencil and glaring angrily at the phone, mentally cursing it out for not ringing when I send it the appropriate psychic order to do so.

It was a week ago, to the day, that I tried calling the hotel in England – and it just rang and rang and rang... I thought maybe he'd gone out, so I waited a bit, as any reasonable person would do, before trying again.

Four tries – four _hours_ – later, I was starting to get worried. I thought maybe he'd gotten lonely and... well... whatever... (not wanting to actually believe he'd go off with someone else for the night, but maybe he'd figure _one_ "shag" apart from me wouldn't hurt... so I'd forgive him if that's all it was...)

But the next day, I made another attempt – and the call was redirected this time to the front desk. The insanely polite woman who answered kindly informed me that the suite I'd been trying to ring was no longer being rented. Completely in denial, I started rattling off names, dates, credit card numbers – I even begged for an explanation. But all she could tell me was that "Mister Kinney" had closed his account there the day before.

Not taking the time to think, or explain to her my resounding growl before slamming the receiver down quite abruptly, I stormed into Brian's office, interrupting a phone call of his own to demand why he'd gone behind my back when I'd specifically asked him to keep renting the suite, even take it out of my own paycheck if he wanted to. And his casual air as he easily ignored me and continued babbling on to whoever was on the other end of the phone only served to infuriate me more.

He gave me a coy look as he said into the phone, "I'll have to call you back with the details – someone's just gotten riled up, so I'll have to go take care of my oh so loyal _employee_. But I'll look it over again and give you an answer by early next week. Tell him I'm pretty sure it's a yes, though, so if he's agreeable to it, then we can get the official shit from this end started--"

At my wide eyes and impatient gesturing, Brian cocked an eyebrow and intentionally added, just to make the conversation longer and get on my nerves, "Oh, but of course, I mean that we'll get it all sorted out in the meantime – we'll need him here as soon as possible, though. Anything else I can do for you, then? Are you sure? Nothing pressing – I've got all the time in the world, it seems--"

"Would you hang up the goddamn phone and listen to me!?" I blurted out obnoxiously, practically spitting all over his desk.

"Yeah, okay – sounds good. Enjoy the calm before the storm, because you know you'll be inheriting the tough part, right? Riiiiight--"

I reached out and made a move to hang up the hook – but he only had to narrow his eyes at me to make me freeze.

"Right. Yeah – whatever." He tossed the receiver to me, causing me to fumble with the blasted thing, and sat back in his chair, watching me expectantly. "So what the fuck do _you_ have a bug up your ass about now, Schmidt? Still on your fucking period or what?"

I finally slammed the phone down into the cradle with as much force as possible, then demanded _again_ why he had stopped renting the suite. As if egging me on to hurl headlong into a tantrum, he merely replied in that dull _How bothersome_ tone, "No one's staying there anymore, Ted – it's a waste of money, no matter whose pocket's being robbed."

I was beyond furious.

His face changed, then, into an almost challenging expression – as if he secretly blamed me for "wasting" his cash for the previous several weeks with no explanation (okay, so, that was true, and it was no real secret...), but only asked why I was so curious about it...

...and I just couldn't tell him. I simply couldn't find the words, through all my suddenly strong paranoia and fear – I could barely think at all as I scurried out of Brian's office and instead tried to get hold of Ricky: if he'd been doing what he was supposed to, he would know what had happened to Matty...

But Ricky's phone was out of service.

I ran back into Brian's office and demanded to know why the hell Ricky's phone was cut off – and Brian only shrugged, suggesting, "Who knows? Maybe he's late on payments; maybe he's just not answering because he recognizes your number; maybe he lost the damn thing. Why ask me?"

Every possibility could have been something I could picture Ricky doing – except maybe ignoring me; _he'd_ been the one calling _me_ every other hour back in England.

Then Brian suggested with a smirk, "Or maybe he's busy making changes of his own."

I had no clue what he could have been talking about – not at the time, anyway.

Not until today, that is.

Brian comes sailing through the office after a round of lunchtime interview meetings with potential executives to work with, his equally obedient and busy-bodied sidekick not far behind him. To my surprise, as I'm still concentrating all my psychic energy to either make the phone ring or blow it up, Brian comes straight for my desk, announcing loudly, "Schmidt! Just the slave I was looking for."

I groan – audibly. "Oh, now what?" I don't even bother dragging my glare away from the phone to address him. Oh, the respect level between us... It's quite...

Okay. On a professional level, it's golden; any other perspective – we both think the other's a joke.

Speaking of joke...

"Well," he starts, standing in front of my desk and waving a hand between my gaze and the phone. "Since it doesn't seem like you're doing anything very _useful_ – though at least it's not your recently usual, irritating whining and bitching – go pick up our new employee from the airport so I don't have to drive in that atrocious traffic."

And before I can really protest, he's fluttering off, leaving Cynthia to hand me a sheet of paper with the flight arrival information scribbled on it, in Brian's own chicken scratch.

I stare at the paper for a second, then snap my head around to catch him. "New employee?" I growl, glaring at his back before he can fully retreat into his office. "We're _flying_ people in now? What the fuck, Brian!? Didn't you say before that you were trying to cut _down_ on expenses!? Why the hell can't this jackass just pay his own way--"

Brian only pauses to look back at me with a dull stare. "It's a special case with this one, okay? He's new to town and could use a decent guide, someone to show him some fun – and I just don't feel like doing it. So, since no one _else_ that fits that description is available, I thought you could at least return _his_ favors and just get him used to the place, huh? Give a little, Schmidt – you'll feel a lot better once you get past your sulking..."

I roll my eyes at the slight dig, then remind him morbidly, "So you want me to show this guy a good time, but you _are_ still aware there's a _reason_ they call this place _Pitts_burgh, right?"

He just smirks, offering, "I'm sure you'll find something to do with him – you seemed to hit it off pretty well back in London..."

And then his words sink in – all of them. Including the mild hint from the week before. Instantly, my face reflexively finds a way to pinch and droop at the same time.

"Oh _God!_" I wail, almost jumping out of my chair. "Don't _tell_ me you brought _Ricky_ over here!"

Brian smiles, shrugging again. "Okay – I won't, then. If that makes you feel better--"

"But he's supposed to be--"

And Brian cuts me off by a sharply closing door after Cynthia bustles by him into his office.

"--in London," I finish, obviously to myself now. I have my orders, apparently, so instead of sitting for another five hours to glare hatefully at that goddamn silent phone, I jerk my suit jacket back on and hunt for my keys. All the while, I'm working out a bitter speech I'm going to spew forth when I come face-to-face with the little twerp (even though he's one and a half times taller than me – he's still skinny, I can take him; besides, he's a big wuss if you ask me, and if the Master of the Twitchies is saying that about someone else, you know they've _got_ to be bad...). As I head for the door, I mutter petulantly to myself, "I'm gonna quit, I swear to God--"

The door to Brian's office yanks open for him to poke his head out, and when I whirl around to meet his gaze, he grins widely and smugly back at me.

"No, you won't. You love me too much."

I could snort, I'm so unamused by that utter bull.

His grin evaporates in a millisecond and he adds sternly, "Now get going before you miss the flight – don't wanna leave the poor kid stranded at the airport. Where's your Pennsylvania hospitality?"

I sigh heavily as he ducks back into his office, dragging myself to the exit while trying to come up with a nasty retort – but I'm stopped again when the door swings open and he shouts, "_Schmidt!_"

I spin back and glare daggers at him.

Brian makes a face, wrinkling his nose, as if disgusted. "Why not take the rest of the day off? In fact, don't bother coming back until Monday – you look like shit, you're being nothing but a bitch, you're an old man who needs to recharge his battery more often than us younger, _hot_ folks."

"Fuck you, Kinney."

"You're welcome." And he grants me the best damn thing I can think of to wish for at this moment: he disappears again, leaving me the hell _alone_.

Thank fucking _God_...

Oh wait – better not get too excited; don't want to waste it all so quickly, I remind myself miserably as I re-read the sheet Cynthia gave me. There's still _Ricky_ to deal with.

Fucking hell. Why couldn't he have given me the days _before_ this one to prepare for the betraying little fucker's arrival? He'd better have a _damn_ good explanation for why he's here – and not back in _London_ looking for _Matty_ and calling me to assure me he's _okay_...

Jesus. Is it too much to ask? Really, is it?

_Matty:_

A foggy red mist fills my head, easing me soothingly into a blissful, peaceful state of consciousness – or maybe unconsciousness... I can't really tell anymore. When I first put up such a stubborn struggle, there seemed to be no end in sight to the smothering, panicked convulsions my body gave, mostly involuntary. Muscles spasmed, throat clenched, hands grappled furiously – but it's with the first few forced breaths, at the end of my rope, unable to hold out any longer, that the automatic fight overtakes me... and then slowly, until only a random jerk now and again shakes me, leaves. And I'm left floating, it seems, upon an endless, weightless cloud – funny, I think vaguely as the red shifts gradually to darkness, how I suddenly feel so light, so unburdened, when my rapidly diminishing logical side knows I'm actually logged down heavily with more weight inside of me...

But this state of mind... though I know it leads to nothingness, it's so tempting to just ride it out, so easy and painless. Any other wound I've received in the past... how long? Five minutes? Ten? An hour? A whole day? - however long it's been – feels non-existent. Like I never had them in the first place.

I'm mere inches away from that euphoria of sleep, of a merciful rest after such a pathetic existence. And I sort of feel like... I _want_ it to end.

And then I'm gagging, coughing, sputtering – painfully regurgitating the water from my lungs onto my now soaked lap. The sudden, sharp lurch back to reality sends me on a fit of uncontrolled hiccups and sobbing, not even knowing who's holding me upright – not even aware of the petrified cries tumbling out of my own bruised lips.

"Where is he – is he here? Get him off, get him off – get _off!_"

It feels like someone else has control of me, is forcing these shrieks out of my mouth, pulling the right strings to make my flailing arms lash out at anything in front of or surrounding me. So I can't stop myself when I see the slumped form several feet away, and am unable to make the proper connections in my head to realise that the hands gripping my arms and patting my back to help me get the rest of the water out aren't John's. I shove them away automatically, shaking violently, gasping and fighting for air.

And then an unfamiliar voice from behind me reaches my ears: "Aw'ight, then, mate? Got it sorted yet?"

That's when sense starts poking around my brain again, and I reach out to grab the cool porcelain of the bath, recalling where I am – and why I'm here. With a now draining but still half-full bathtub beside me (some vague hints of red now turning to faint pink as it's sucked away), and sores on my face, back and neck reminding me of how I just nearly drowned...

But then... if I was so close to it, and John's lying in a heap in the corner, and someone else's voice is asking me if I'm all right, then who...

I jerk sideways, slamming back against the tub, and gape up at the stranger in the room with me: he's a tall bloke, slender, with messy, longish dark hair, in a rumpled and damp suit (though the jacket's missing). And a pair of big, wide bug eyes peers back at me, half assuring – and half concerned.

"Y'aw'ight, then?" he asks again, his northern accent very thick. "Ye scared me for a second there, eh? Y'weren't breathin' – thought 'e may've actually drowned ye. But you're up an' 'wake now, ain't ye? Well, 'at's good. Oi, had me aw worried for nuffin'..."

"Who are you?" I rasp, finally finding my voice between the hacking fits as I curl up anxiously against the bathtub. Not sure if this new bloke is friend or foe.

A light flicks on behind his eyes and he sits up on his heels, holding out a hand. "Aye, didn't properly introduce meself, did I? Was a bit too busy gettin' that water out. Oi, but, well, I'm Ricky. An' you mus' be Matty, eh?"

Slowly, as I eye him up warily, the pieces start falling into place as I hesitantly reach out to take the proffered hand. "Ricky? As in... Ted's Ricky?"

"Aye, s'pose you could say 'at. Though right now I'm actin' as both Ted's _and_ Brian's Ricky. Cor, you'd think I was a race hoss, wouldn't ye?" he chuckles with an extremely good nature.

I try in vain to laugh along with him, but I'm far too shaken – and still in pain from the pre-drowning beating – to pull off being congenial.

"Well," Ricky goes on, growing somber as he looks at me, "I've done me duty on behalf a' Ted. Now, though, I've gotta turn 'round an' be Brian's bitch..."

I blink furiously as more hacking racks my body, but after a moment I regain myself and watch him cautiously, not very assured by the rather forlorn, regretful expression on his face.

"Well, see, Mr. Kinney – tha's Brian, y'see – he rang me up a li'l while ago, like, an' was askin' me what might'a happened to Ted to make 'im into such a, uh, `mopey li'l prick' since gettin' back from 'ere – oh, Brian's words, not mine, by the way. Anyway... So, erm, yeah... I couldn't think a' nothin' else but you, really, seein' as Ted was aw scared a' leavin' ye an'aw, comin' to _me_ for help 'cause 'e was so desperate for someone ta keep an eye out, y'know... So, well, I told 'im 'bout you – or, rather, what Ted's told me 'bout you anyway. Y'know, the old abusive coot an' aw that," and he gestures with a swish of his hand towards John, who's still out cold in the corner.

Blimey, what the hell'd Ricky _do_ to knock him out like that?

"An' 'bout havin' nowhere ta go an' Teddy lettin' ye stay 'ere," Ricky goes on, oblivious to my stunned realisation of my ex-lover being unconscious.

Quite frankly, though, even _I'm_ forced to forget John for a bit, since the next words out of Ricky's mouth are, "But, well... Brian don't want ye stayin' 'ere no more."

My breathing somewhat regulated by now, I inhale deeply and let out a long sigh; surprisingly, I'm not really all that taken aback. Disappointed, even disheartened – but not shocked. I suppose I've been waiting for something like this to happen all along. Living somewhere as posh as this, however temporarily, on someone else's dime? Certainly too good to last.

"So," Ricky goes on after a moment of letting that sink in, "how 'bout you go get your things packed whilst I, uh..." He gestures to John's limp form with his chin. "...dispose of the rubbish."

"Er..." I squint, trying to remain calm, even if I've no idea what the hell I'm going to do now – it's not like I'd _dare_ to go back to the flat. Maybe Judy'll be in and will let me crash out with her... or maybe just behind the bar... or something...

But I have to remember the practical stuff, too, aside from someplace to go. My mind on overdrive despite the pounding inside it, I manage to croak out, "Th-That's fine, but... you see, there's the m-matter of the... the computer..."

"Ah, don't worry 'bout that, love--" Ricky cuts off abruptly, grimacing. "Oooh... I'm sorry – didn't mean ta call ye `love'... Er, guess it just seems ta suit ye somehow..."

This time I actually _do_ laugh despite the internal worries and external injuries, shaking my head. "No bother."

"`Mate' just seems a bit too... Oh, well, whatever," Ricky sighs, waving it off. "Anyway, don't worry 'bout that, I'll be back to fetch it when I come to close out Brian's account n'aw. I'll prob'ly just take the thing back to the store, rather than move it over, seein' as the new place's got individual ones in each room..."

I nod absently along with his rambling, letting him help me to my feet – but then his words finally register and I stop, narrowing my eyes at him, puzzled.

"Eh? _New_ place?"

Ricky pauses, looking just as confused about the obvious confusion on _my_ face. "Aye – the new hotel he's – _oh!_" he gasps suddenly, already wide eyes growing somehow larger. "I wasn't clear, was I?"

I merely blink at him to signal that, uh, _no_, he wasn't, really... I'm completely clueless, actually...

I suddenly begin to understand why Ted was always at his wit's end with this kid – and though he may very well be older than me by a few years and perhaps twice my size (vertically, anyway), I still feel justified in calling him "kid." He's extremely friendly and all, but seems so scattered at the same time – like he means well and wants to do big things, show grand gestures... but he kind of gets lost in his own head before actually being able to carry them out...

A bit of a mess, really. But sweet nonetheless. Thankfully, I've tons more patience than Ted...

"Ah, terribly sorry," Ricky rants as he reaches for a towel to wrap round me. "My fault, my fault. Cor, must've been a right shock to think you was bein' ousted on yer bum, eh? Naw, naw, love, 's awright – Brian's just movin' ye to a new flat. Er, hotel. I jus' felt sorry for ye 'cause it means ye gotta get uprooted n' everythin' again... But Brian says someone who makes _Teddy_ so bloody happy – as well as completely and utterly miserable under different circumstances – deserves better than what the company has to offer. 'E says someone with that kinda talent's gotta be pretty bloody special. This place 'ere is good enough for Ted, but evidently not for personal treatment."

I stand frozen in the bathroom, gaping at him. "Personal... treatment?"

"Aye." Ricky goes over and starts to lug the unconscious lout from the corner. "Brian's settin' ye up for a bit at a first-rate place this time – both of us, actually, since I'm goin' ta be movin' house meself and got nowhere else ta go. An' really, it's a good thing 'e's movin' ye, too, eh? Since _this_ wanker 'ere knows where y'are now, right?"

My stunned gaze droops to John's slack face when Ricky jostles him, and I realise he's right – best to get out now...

"So go on, then," Ricky urges as he drags John out the door. "Get yer stuff together n' we'll be off, then – I've got a car waitin' downstairs for us."


	21. Chapter 21 Sunset

21 - Sunset

_Ted:_

I shouldn't be here. I know I should be, according to my boss and my job, my morals and logic. But I just shouldn't be.

But here I am, at the damn airport, ignoring the freshly landed plane outside and all the waiting, expectant people around me chattering excitedly as they watch for their intended guests, family, friends – whoever – to emerge from the terminal.

I, on the other hand, am fully absorbed by my cell phone. I check and recheck my messages, dialing Ricky's useless number repeatedly for no real reason other than out of habit, and try desperately to find possibly lost or missed calls (even though I've had the thing on and in my hand or pocket for the last week).

I feel the urge to call Brian and curse him out a few times, but I resist: who knows if someone might try to reach me as I barrel on angrily to an uncaring prick in the middle of a crowded room?

All the while, the only clear images in my mind are of Matty: smiling shyly at me when he would wake in the morning, pleasantly startled to find himself still there in my arms; wide, bright blue eyes pinning me to my seat as he confessed to me his honesty each time he'd said those disturbing words and meant them literally, being "tied up" at home; the focused look of deep concentration as he unleashed a flood of emotions into the unassuming upright piano onstage at the jazz club; the sweetly blissful expression on his pale face while he slept soundly against my chest, as if finding true safety for the first time in his life had finally allowed the creases in his forehead to vanish; the half-lidded, erotic gaze from his smoldering eyes as I opened him up (pardon the pun) to a whole new world of intimacy and love...; and, especially agonizing, the hopeless look of unrestrained pain as he watched me walk away from him to board a plane that would separate us for an unknown amount of time – which he had consciously, firmly insisted upon, but in that moment, seemed like he wanted to take back.

Every look, every grin, every expression – whether charming, intent, curious, mischievous, hurt, devastating, or just downright sexy – seers through my mind as the glow of my cell further ignites my helpless anxiety when I feel the panic rising in my gut. It's been too long, too goddamn long, for something not to have happened. He couldn't have just disappeared... could he? The only way that could happen is if...

No... No, I can't think about that. I can't let myself even _suggest_ the possibility that he's been found and taken back to that hell, helpless himself from being too weak to get away... or... or given up and gone back willingly...

No – I can't let myself believe it.

So I say – even as the lump in my throat dissolves and I'm near to breaking down from worry, right here and now, in the middle of the airport, in the middle of this uncomfortable group of strangers...

Breathless, I feel myself grow dizzy, my legs weakening beneath me, and I have to stumble through the crowd to find a cheap plastic seat to hold onto. The phone clutched in my hand fiercely, I punch in Brian's number, then let my thumb hover over the "call" button. If anyone should have to be subjected to my supposedly annoying bouts of panic, he should be my prime target. He's the pain in the ass who jammed me into this pathetic situation anyway; why _shouldn't_ he have to deal with the mess I've become after putting me through this kind of hell?

So I'm this distracted, wrapped up in my own mini-heart-attack, that I hardly even notice when another presence has purposefully supplanted itself beside me. I just faintly notice a flash of red in my peripheral vision, and this only serves to speed up the mental slideshow of Matty's most memorable moments as I have a fleeting thought of that fucking shirt with him in it, and I feel a sweat break out on my forehead.

"_Oi_," says a gruff male voice next to me in a snappy, growling, demanding tone. "Go get me bags already, bellboy, I ain't got all day."

Gasping for air, I numbly register that whoever is speaking is doing so to _me_ – and my confusion over not being able to match this sinister snarl to my expectation of finding Ricky traipsing stupidly out of the terminal makes me cringe... I can't take much more of this shit, I really can't, I think to myself. Nothing is all right, nothing is okay – everything is just going to _shit_ – my own inner voice even breaks tearfully over the words as I realize how true it is: I honestly can't... don't _want_ to... _be_ without him...

"H-Hang on a second," I beg, my voice coming out shaky and pitiful. "I just... I just need..."

And then the voice speaks again – much softer now, gentler... and...

"Blimey... Can't leave y'alone for a second, can I, Teddy?"

...heart-breakingly familiar.

My breath chokes off, and very slowly, I lift my head – in the next instant, snapping it sideways in a sharp gesture of shock.

The hair is shorter, a bit neater, but just as gorgeously coal-black as before – if anything, it just accentuates his cutely grinning face and that long, elegant neck. Similarly, that very same sneaky little smile is as goofy yet adorable as my own mind's vivid memory of it. And that shirt... that damned shirt that clings so adoringly to him, making me wish I could die and come back as cotton to be made into another cherished fashion concoction he enjoys wearing...

I'm speechless as I gape at the totally unexpected – but completely welcome and invited – beaming face in front of me. I can't even form a word when the delicious little giggle my ears love hearing escapes his small red lips.

"Oi," he finally interrupts my silent ogling of him. "You my chauffeur?"

I gulp, and after comes a noisy gasp. "You..."

He shrugs helplessly, raising his eyebrows. "Is it that much of a shock? I thought Mister Kinney told you..."

_Brian... you... fucking... bastard... I love you..._

Before I know what's happening, I let out a stifled sob and throw my arms around the smaller form, burying my face in his neck as he giggles again and returns the hug – though perhaps not as fiercely, but then, I _am_ a bit stronger, so he's probably holding on as tightly as he can (like me), but mine is simply more powerful.

"I was... so scared," I whisper hoarsely, hands gripping his back and holding on with such need, as if I'm afraid he'll vanish if I let go.

He laughs outright, but he isn't doing it to be cruel – I can tell because it seems to just bubble out of him, like he can't suppress it... like he's too _giddy_ to contain himself. Just like I'm too relieved to hold back the tears in my eyes... or even to care how Brian most likely pulled this prank on me out of spite for scaring him shitless when I threatened to quit.

Damn, I must really be good if _Brian_ panicked over losing me.

But Matty was right – I would've had to have been in dire straits to leave my job. I _would_ have quit, to be honest, if Matty hadn't stepped in and been so understanding and encouraging as to assure me it was all right to come back first – but he isn't like that. Which is only one small element to why I'm currently smothering him in my embrace right now, not giving a damn what people must think as I press myself against him even in this crowd of strangers and try to eat him whole, starting with his delectable neck.

A hand slides up his back to a thin shoulder, fingers skating firmly over warm skin at the base of his throat, as I finally pull back – though not far – and lift my face to his, eyes not daring to close as I kiss him openly, because I don't want to stop looking at him, seeing him right here with me. I feel his long lashes grazing my cheek faintly and break away, catching my breath as he smiles shyly up at me. Beautiful ocean-blue irises sparkling even more vivaciously than I can recall.

And all he says, in that high yet husky voice I love so much, is, "Hi there. Been a while, eh?"

I groan dumbly at how easily he can get under my skin, but relish the feeling all the same as I kiss him again, less frenzied and relieved than the first, but with a clear passion that can't be misinterpreted – and I don't even notice the disdainful glances, startled gapes, or happily sympathetic and understanding smiles we receive for this unchecked public display of affection.

When I pull back again, he's the one catching his breath this time, and I stammer out in a rush, "How the hell did you – wait, Brian was behind it, so he must've – I was waiting for Ricky, though, so is he – no, wait, he's not here, is he? Well, how would you know? You never met him – but I don't get how – I'm supposed to be picking up – unless that was just a way to get me here--"

He silences me with a finger against my lips, and that reassuring grin.

"Don't worry, I'll explain it all, then – since it seems Mister Kinney _didn't_ enlighten you as I thought. But in answer to one of your queries – no, it wasn't a lie or a cover. There was no ploy of making up anything to get you here. He must have just kept from telling you _who_ exactly you were waiting for."

I shake my head. "He just said it was a new employee--"

Matty startles me by nodding firmly. "Exactly. But he failed to mention it's _me_, right?"

I blink at him, finally understanding – and my eyes shift to saucers. "You... _You're_ the new--"

"Yup," he grins proudly. "It was on a whim and I didn't really expect it to happen, but according to Ricky – who I _have_ met, by the way – Mister Kinney was considering my application quite seriously when he saw my work. The only thing against me, he said, was that I was an import, y'know. So he was gonna go with someone else, save on expenses or whatever. But he asked Ricky why _you_ were being so cranky, and Ricky told him about me. I guess Bri—er, I mean, _Mister Kinney_ remembered the name from my application – so he had another reason to bring me over. Legally and all."

"Legally and – so... you're..."

He suddenly drops his arms from my waist, stepping back from me and holding out a hand. "The newest member of Mister Kinney's art department," he announces in a faux professional tone as he shakes my hand – in that light, flowing way of his that threw me so sharply the first time I touched him. "Lovely to meet you, I hope to have a successful and productive working relationship with you and everyone in your agency, sir."

He drops the professional act and leans in with that conniving smile. "By the way, I've been known to sleep my way to the top."

I let out a breathless chuckle, feeling as if a whirlwind has just entered – or, more accurately, _re_-entered – my life. And I'm all the better for it. "Well, Jesus, I hope you aren't looking to get any higher than screwing the accountant!"

He lifts his eyebrows in interest. "Hm. I hear that's where all the _money's_ at..."

I groan at the pathetic joke – while he laughs boisterously and obnoxiously, poking me in the ribs. Then he grows serious again and informs me somberly, "Oh, but... there _is_ one slight problem, however."

I meet his gaze confidently, ready to take on whatever new obstacle is in our way this time. "And that is?"

"You see, Mister Kinney was so _busy_ with getting me my visitor's pass, as it'll take a bit longer to get my Visa and such, but he wanted me here as soon as possible – that, well, he had me put on a plane before he was able to secure me a place to stay."

I smirk, my eyes rolling heavenward in a mockery of exasperation.

"He said that you've been such a whiny pratt lately that he'll saddle _you _with this burden. Is that going to be a problem?"

I sigh heavily, shaking my head. "What an uncaring, thoughtless dick. But don't you worry about a thing, dear. I'll get you sorted."

"I'm sure you will," he mumbles lowly, then clears his throat and says audibly, "So you have someplace in mind where I can stay, then?"

I sling an arm over his shoulder and leisurely start to lead him away from the waiting area. "Oh... I think I can work _something_ out..."

"Well, that's a relief."

I still feel a bit shaky, not only over the previous panic but now over the shock as well – but I manage to feel grounded enough to turn slightly to him, pecking him on the cheek. His return grin is so enticing that I can't help but feel that familiar heat in my abdomen, and I rumble into his ear, "I'm supposed to show you a good time, too. According to _Mister Kinney_."

"Oh? What'd you have in mind?"

"Hmm... First, I think I'll help you get your bags. Then, I'll have to get you back to the condo and get you settled in. Next, I think I'll get you some takeout, and then, maybe get you out of those clothes – you must want to get a shower – and then maybe after some site-seeing and such, I'll get you--"

"Ted, if you don't say you'll get me in bed next, you'll be needing to get _yourself_ a bloody doctor."

I consider his threat thoroughly before answering, "Whatever my honorable guest requires..."

Three days later, I assure him that the next weekend we'll "get" around to actually leaving the bed to go see those "sites."

He only replies, "Maybe."

_Matty:_

Ever since I was a child, I despised the fact that every story I read, every movie I saw, every imaginary set-up – they all had happy endings. Later, when I was able to experience more "adult" entertainment, I found there to be much more varied ways to close a show. Some of the best ones I've known over the years either had very sad endings, or a twisted, unexpected, mixed bag of conclusions. Never a clear cut-and-dry, "and they rode off into the sunset and lived happily ever after" finale.

To this day, I still am glad that Renton took the money and ran, despite leaving behind his friends; it just wouldn't have been _right_ for Edward to have real hands and a lovely (shoplifting) wife, otherwise he would never have remained unique and mystical (and kids would never get out of school for snowstorms); Raskolnikov _had_ to suffer as a prisoner and be reminded of the goodness in others despite his own loathsome cynicism for humans in general, otherwise he may vainly have believed himself to _be_ one of the fittest and smartest – he's forced to accept his humility and recognise the strength in what he defensively thought was Sonia's weakness; and Jubal may have felt like he lost a son, but Michael and his followers truly _believed_ that he was now a part of all of them – it's what he _wanted_, what they all wanted... even if Jubal was unable to fully _grok_ despite all his other open views and easy acceptance of how people live their own lives.

But once in a while, I understand _why_ happy endings can be necessarily and clearly stated. It's the hope in rebuilding a new, better world that makes the survival of Rei-L, Vincent and Pino more of an uplifting choice – not a corny "they _can't_ die because they're my favorites," but a spirit-soaring "they _survived_, and they _will_ succeed this time, even if the last attempt was a failure."

Even with potentially cheesy love stories: though it may be more clever to show how Fergis takes the blame for Dil and goes to prison, proving his love even more devoutly than, say, running away together and becoming man and sort-of "wife," I was always glad for the fact that such an (equivalent) ending came true for Jen and Kyra (even defying death itself... damn puppets...).

The bottom line is, sometimes, though it's more dramatic and perhaps more realistic to throw in twists and turns, it can also be equally enjoyable and satisfying to be assured of a character's positive future with hints of a "happily ever after." As hokey as it can be, sometimes it's nice to imagine that people who deserve more or better finally are given their due.

This is exactly what I think every morning when I wake in bed next to or resting on the man I love. The man who saved me. The man who inspired me and gave me hope. The man who, beyond his own doubts and fears, his own judgment and barriers, decided to give in to his feelings instead of his logic – which, in turn, reminded me of who _I_ am. More than this, he gave me a chance to find out what I can become – by loving me through everything with an unwavering devotion, and willingly risking his own pride to show me how much he cared.

He may not have ridden in on a horse to whisk me away from danger – but he gave me a reason to find the strength to do what I thought I never could, walking away on my own two feet instead of waiting for someone else to change my life. He may not have led me by the hand step by step – but he trusted me and held onto his faith in me until I found a way to succeed. He may not have healed my wounds, erased the fears, or magically alleviated the nightmares, trauma, and endless self-doubt.

But he let me lean on him when I was weak, he held me when I woke screaming, he stood beside me in confronting those demons, and told me of the beauty he saw when all I could see was ugly apathy. His "little" graces, his urges and assurances (rather than his overpowering sweeping away of anything daunting), pulled me through, and those small miracles grew into a larger-than-life superhero who loves me unconditionally – as I continue becoming that much better a person myself. I guess you could say he helped me find _my_ happy ending.

And as soon as I retune the bloody heap of a second-hand piano we've saved up for together, we'll live happily ever after... making sandwiches out of all the cheese, and loving every bit of it the whole time.

Da End 'N Aw

What happened to...? - Ricky was moving house back in England cuz he got pwomoted to Ted's former position when he left, therefore he got a pay raise. John woke up on the roof of the hotel and went back down to the suite, trashed the place cuz he was pissed, and ended up getting arrested for it. BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!! WHAT A DOPE!!!! just so's ya knows...


End file.
